


The Article

by LeeASherlook



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hidden truths, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Implied/Referenced Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2019-10-30 15:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17830850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeeASherlook/pseuds/LeeASherlook
Summary: One newspaper article upends Harry's Wednesday morning, as he must deal with the consequences of having the reality of his home life splashed across the front page of The Daily Prophet. It might have been bearable if the information was anything less than the absolute truth.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Term had barely started when it happened. It was a simple Wednesday morning and an easy, regular breakfast before the day began. Until it wasn’t either of those things.

Harry was busy buttering his toast, trying to avoid noticing the disgusted looks Hermione was shooting Ron – who was busy stuffing three hash browns into his mouth.

“Honestly,” she muttered under her breath, returning her nose to the book she held in her left hand, pointedly facing the opposite direction to the content redhead beside her. Harry bit into his toast and looked over at Neville, unable to find the energy to strike up conversation between the three of them that wouldn’t involve Ron speaking with his mouth full and stoking Hermione’s ire. Neville seemed to be struggling with righting his robes, the sleeves of which seemed at least five inches too short; making it clear that the other boy was wearing someone else’s clothes. Hiding a grin, Harry’s eyes flickered to his empty goblet and he helped himself to fresh pumpkin juice, taking a sip of the cool liquid just as a number of owls flocked into the hall to deliver the daily post. Glancing up, he tried to spot Hedwig’s brilliant white feathers, catching sight of her just as she swooped in to land. Oddly, she had no letter attached, only a rolled Daily Prophet – a newspaper Harry did not subscribe to – especially considering what had happened last year.

Gently removing it from her leg and allowing her an affectionate nibble on his thumb and a piece of toast, Harry let her fly off before throwing open the offending paper – not noticing that there seemed to be an unusual amount of subscriptions delivered that morning. Hermione received her own copy from one of the school owls, but left it rolled on the table, absorbed in her book.

It didn’t occur to Harry that anything he saw in the news could bother him anymore, what with the amount of rubbish published about him the year before. But when he was met with the front page, his blood ran cold, trickling to a halt in his veins despite the treacherous increase of his hammering heart.

_‘HARRY POTTER ABUSED BY MUGGLE FAMILY?’_

_‘The boy-who-lived despised and mistreated by his only living relatives, according to repentant report from cousin Dudley Dursley.’_

 

It was either a bad joke, or he was still asleep, and this was one vivid nightmare. There was no way that Dudley would speak to wizards about anything. He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. There wasn’t even an accompanying picture, so perhaps it was all a big mistake?

Harry’s pulse thumped loudly in his ears, and it was only when he tore his eyes away from the title that he began to notice the looks and the whispers, as well as the multitude of heads around him buried in black and white print, greedily devouring every word of the article.

Whether it was the noise in the hall or Harry’s bloodless face, Hermione was suddenly looking at him in concern, unaware of the events unfolding around her. Ron even lost focus on his plate.

“You alright, mate?” he asked, eyes crinkled in confusion, gesturing with a sausage in his hand. He noticed the paper, but not the headline. He nodded a head toward it. “What tosh are they printing now?”

Hermione was quicker to note the seriousness of the situation, catching sight of the students around her beginning to turn, whisper and nudge one another. She snatched up her own paper and revealed the front page, her hand flying to her mouth in shock at what she saw.

Not sure where to look, Harry’s eyes dropped back to the article with dread, pushing himself to read the first few lines, to confirm to himself that it was just ‘tosh’. But what he found was not so dishonest as the myriad of lies printed in the past. In fact, they were right on the money.

 

_‘Details of Harry Potter’s home life have naturally remained a secret for much of the boy-who-lived’s life, not only to allow him a normal (as normal as muggle upbringings can be, in any case) childhood,’ writes Miranda Cheshire, Senior Journalist for the Prophet, ‘but also to enhance his protection and safety.’ However, a chance meeting with the young Potter’s cousin has proved that things were anything but normal in the private life of this enigmatic boy, as details of neglect, verbal abuse and a cacophony of feelings that round out into hatred have surfaced in the misdeeds of the family small Harry was entrusted to sixteen years ago. The youngest Dursley opened up to us about the regret he feels regarding his behaviour over the years toward his cousin, as well as permitting his father – an obscenely large man – free reign in his hard-handed approach to his skinny nephew. ‘Dad said he and my mum tried to stamp the magic out of Harry,’ Dudley admits. ‘I don’t know if he ever beat him, but he threw him ‘round a bit more than a few times, screamed at him for the smallest things and even starved him for days in punishment – that one was a pretty regular thing. Mum even tried to hit him with a frying pan one time…’_

 

Harry felt the bile rising in his throat at the hideous, private truths revealed in the words in front of him, unable to read anymore. He registered that the hall had gone deathly quiet, most of the pupils having read enough of the piece to gain an understanding of what exactly was detailed there. It took one look at Ernie Macmillan’s gaping expression to shock Harry out of his stupor and into the shitstorm that was unfolding. Mortified, angry beyond belief and feeling a number of things he couldn’t quite come to terms with in that moment (betrayal, by Dudley no less), Harry found his eyes moving up to the staff table, noting Dumbledore’s empty chair and recognising this as a momentary blessing, as he couldn’t bear to see the elderly wizard’s reaction.

However, unconsciously, his eyes did shift to the left and straight into the dark pools of his ex-potion’s professor. Snape looked paler than usual, but it was nothing compared to the unabashed fury of McGonagall who was next to him. Harry couldn’t handle the sight, so when Hermione quietly said his name his head twisted back to her so fast that his neck cracked.

The tentative look on her face, paired with the uneasy line of Ron’s mouth had Harry’s entire being rejecting the situation and he scrambled up from his seat, picking up the paper with a vicious fist. When he turned around to leave, his eyes somehow found the white hair of Draco Malfoy, far off at an equally stunned Slytherin table, most of whom were openly staring at him. Malfoy included. His gauntly visage was twisted into a strange sort of curiosity, as if he had never seen Harry before. And that was the last thing Harry saw before he fled.

 

* * *

 

McGonagall had caught up with him only moments after he departed, forcing him to accompany her to his office and begin a series of embarrassing, but gentle, questions about the entire situation – including the necessity of a visit to the hospital wing to check for injuries. Harry recognised her good intentions, but he refused to talk, the overwhelming feeling preventing him from processing anything. He just wanted to get away, which is why, after an hour, he agreed to speak to his head of house in two days’ time when Dumbledore was due to return to the castle. He was numb when he nodded his head to this, not quite registering the look of concern on the witch’s face as he hurried from the room and was half-heartedly permitted to return to classes.

It was only when he stepped out that he realised the next class was Defence Against the Dark Arts. With the Slytherins. He was going to be crucified. Dawdling in the hallway and leaning against a wall, trying to calm himself down, Harry pressed his forehead against the cool stone. He considered skipping the class. But then surely that would have Snape, as well as McGonagall, after him.

Sighing, he pulled the crumpled newspaper out of his bag and dared another look down at it. There it was, clear as day, the state of his relationship with his relatives. It wasn’t as if he cared at this point, but he couldn’t bear the pity, concerned looks, laughter and whispers that were bound to follow him throughout the school and into the entire wizarding world. Why did he have to be him? Why did Voldemort not only mark him but curse him with the burden of being known to everyone? What he wouldn’t give to be a nobody, someone who could pass by unnoticed in this situation. Instead of being splashed across the front page of a rag of a newspaper.

Gritting his teeth, he stashed it away once more and began the journey to his lesson, aware that he only had minutes to get there. He would have to face the music at some point. And there would only be more talking, more anticipation, if he disappeared for hours – as much as he was yearning to do exactly that.

 

* * *

 

Harry turned the corner just as Snape himself did, which immediately subdued the line of students waiting to pile into the classroom. Though unfortunately it didn’t stop the whispering. Hermione and Ron looked like they wanted to talk there and then, but Harry murmured a quick ‘later’ to them as he passed, and they nodded their consent.

Snape shot the gossiping students a look, before jarring his head toward the door in a silent order to get inside.

Harry sat three rows from the back, with his best friends on either side. A subtle form of protection. Raising his green eyes just in time to catch Draco Malfoy passing, he noticed the uplifted eyebrow the blonde directed his way. Shooting him a glare, Harry turned away, which only made Malfoy smirk and sit directly in front of him – a clear move of antagonism.

Snape had barely begun his lecture on the subtleties of vampire bites when grey eyes dared turn around to Harry, ready to torment and tease in malicious delight.

“Hey Potter, what’s it like to go from the boy-who-lived to the boy pushed around by his fat, muggle filth of an uncle?”

Harry tried to let it slide, ignoring the bite in those words. Malfoy’s thin face was tired and worn – he had looked stressed since the beginning of term – but now his expression was morphing into the smugness of his younger years.

“Do they really treat you like a house elf?”

This was worse than having the Slytherin stomp on his face on the Hogwarts Express.

“Shove it, Malfoy!” Ron hissed from the side, earning a loss of five points from Snape in the process.

Harry managed to keep his cool for a full thirty minutes, with Malfoy forced to take breaks in his torment due to the notes their glowering professor demanded they take.

However, the dam broke when Malfoy mentioned the cupboard. Harry hadn’t read that far into the article. Hadn’t realised that it was mentioned full stop.

“Do they still lock you in the cupboard when you’re being naughty, Potter?”

It struck the dark-haired boy that the blonde realised he had stepped too far when he noted the surprise in Malfoy’s eyes as Harry got to his feet. Ignoring his wand and simply striking out, he reached forward and snatched a handful of Malfoy’s robes, wrenching him out of his chair with a yelp and dragging him into the front of Harry’s own desk, smashing his hip into the side of the hardwood.

“Don’t you dare talk about things you don’t understand, Malfoy!” Harry shouted, immediately drawing all other sound from the room as the class stopped to watch the commotion.

“Potter! Let go of Mr Malfoy this instant!” Snape’s tone brooked no argument, but Harry was beyond caring, his furious eyes on the boy in front of him. A boy who wasn’t wise enough to shut up.

“Touched a nerve, did I? I always knew you were a bit of a charity case, Potter. But is it all really true? How sad.”

Harry saw red at the mock pity in the other’s face and he snarled, throwing Malfoy from him with a strength that stunned the entire room. The blonde crashed into his chair and fell over it, hitting the ground with a resounding thump.

Snape was livid, marching toward them, wand at the ready. “POTT-”

Harry’s venom-laced words spoke over him, directed at his classmate on the floor, who for the first time looked scared of the teen wizard standing over him.

“Alright! Yes, it’s all true you ignorant git. Shock horror, my relatives hate me and treat me like I’m nothing. But what does it matter, Malfoy? It doesn’t give you some edge over me. My home life has been the same for the last sixteen years, the same since I first met you. It changes nothing! Don’t you dare see this as some sort of victory. Bring it up again and I will end you.” The danger in those last words surprised Harry himself and he managed to pull his gaze from Malfoy and up to Snape, who was only metres from him.

It stunned him to see that Snape’s eyes were unusually wide, eyebrows raised in a way that didn’t suit the cold man. He was so often expressionless or furious. This was neither of those things.

The quiet around them seemed to pull the still professor back to his usual self and he shot a disgusted look at Harry, looking like himself again immediately.

“See me after class Potter. And get up Mr Malfoy! Go to the hospital wing if you must.”

Dread pooled in Harry’s stomach and he slowly sat back down, ignoring Hermione’s whispered questions, staring bitterly at Malfoy as he righted himself and his chair, wondering only moments later why Snape had not immediately taken points. The blonde didn’t bother him again for the rest of the lesson.  

 

* * *

 

The energy to fight had all but left Harry by the time he was standing in front of Snape’s desk, the classroom emptying behind him. He mentally sighed, willing himself to imagine being anywhere but here.

As Ron and Hermione finally departed, sending worried looks in his direction, Harry turned to face the unpleasant visage of his professor.

“Let me make one thing clear. I will not tolerate physical altercations or threats in my classroom, Potter.” Snape’s voice was not its usual cold silk, instead his words were reflecting irritation and annoyance. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem to be enjoying his reprimand as much as he usually would have.

“It is obvious that most of the school will be aware of what featured in the paper this morning, Potter."

Harry was taken aback at the direct address of such a subject. 

"No doubt Mr Malfoy will not be the first to bring it up. You need to control your reactions. Dumbledore may allow you special treatment, but I refuse to-”

“Special treatment? I don’t care if Malfoy has a go at me for being a Gryffindor, or calling me ‘scarhead’, or even the fact that Voldemort is going to finish me off one day. But I won’t let him talk about my personal business in such a pig-headed-”

“Potter!” Snape snapped, fury written into his features.

Harry shut his mouth, recognising that anything further just wouldn’t be worth it. It wasn’t like he could reason with Snape. The man would only see him as he always had. It was no surprise that twenty points were deducted from him moments later, as well as a hissed warning to behave in future. What was surprising is that there were no detentions or other punishments. Instead, he was dismissed with a wave of a hand and an impatient jerk of the head.

Harry grabbed his bag and was almost out the door when Snape spoke rather quickly.

“Was the headmaster aware of… all of this?”

Harry stopped, stunned. He didn’t turn around, but he did respond, knowing immediately what Snape was referring to. Clearly, he had read the article in full.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

Snape wasn’t finished. “Your head of house?”

“No.” Harry was sure of that one after speaking with the Transfiguration teacher the hour previous. She had known who the Dursleys were and that they were generally unpleasant people – that much she was clear on. But nothing about the ins and outs of Harry’s home life.

There was a pause.

“Were you really so arrogant to refuse to mention these things to the appropriate people, Potter? Considering what you said to Mr Malfoy, at least some of the printed accusations hold some truth. Are you too good for such a discussion?”

This was a roundabout, Slytherin way of asking why he hadn’t said anything. If Snape had been anyone else, Harry would have attributed it to reluctant concern.

Harry did turn around then, his unusually cold expression showing the seriousness and plain honesty in his next words.

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning, sir. I’d either be looking for attention or branded a liar. Again.”

And with that, Harry turned on his heel and departed, determined to make it through the day somehow.

 

_End_


	2. Chapter 2

 

The Sunday following the article's release dawned grey and overcast, rain spitting gently against the castle walls. Harry peered out of one of the tower windows, looking into the gloom with exhausted eyes. As much as he hated to admit it, the whispers that followed him around the castle had all but chased him into hiding. He ghosted the corridors on Thursday and Friday, appearing for classes at the last second before vanishing once more, and Saturday was spent outdoors, walking, thinking – away from prying eyes. He had eaten breakfast early and was served dinner by a very kind Dobby in the kitchens.

Ron and Hermione were very obliging in allowing Harry to continue his disappearing act, refusing to speak to anyone of his whereabouts when questioned. According to Ron, Hermione had even brushed off one of the teachers, and while Harry wasn't sure about the validity of this story, he was immensely grateful for their help; it was all just getting to be too much. Every year this seemed to happen with one thing or another. Isolation seemed the best choice, but at least, unlike the Triwizard Tournament disaster, he had both of his best friends on side this time.

In a follow-up blow to the initial news drop last Wednesday, Dumbledore's return two days later had heralded the announcement of a private investigation into the Dursleys and their status as fit guardians. As horrified as he had been, Harry had been forced to acknowledge the sense in the headmaster managing this. The alternative was the ministry getting involved and there was no doubt that they would use that power to their full advantage. But, even as listened to this reasoning from Dumbledore himself, alongside promises of absolute discretion, Harry could feel his blood boiling under his skin. It was only tempered by the rather unmistakable sadness and tiredness in the elderly wizard's face as he spoke. It was unsettling to see such a powerful man look utterly defeated and Harry's own confusion about how much he had known all these years only grew. He hadn't the strength to ask questions on the subject, subconsciously preferring ignorance, whilst brushing away questions after his health, muttering that he was fine. He had left Dumbledore's office that day with very mixed emotions, falling between anger, anxiety and a dull mental nausea. Dumbledore looked as if he wished to continue their conversation, but allowed Harry to leave, asking that he visit him Sunday evening.

Catching sight of his reflection in the window, Harry pulled his focus to himself and away from the grey grounds. Now he could understand why Hermione kept shooting him worried glances. He looked awful. He was gaunt, with heavy bags weighing down his expression – sleep hadn't come easy the last few days. Rolling his eyes, he stepped away and began to dress, hoping to get down to breakfast before the majority. Ron was still snoring in his bed, limbs splayed at all angles and Harry's lips quirked a little as he glanced over at him.

 

* * *

 

The walk down to the Great Hall was quiet. Few students were willing to get up before seven on a Sunday. Even the teachers were scarce. A few portraits offered a cheerful 'good morning', but Harry wasn't inclined to answer, merely nodding in response.

He had just sat down at the deserted Gryffindor table, pointedly ignoring the curious looks he was receiving from three Ravenclaws seated across the way, when the doors he himself had come through moments ago creaked open and a face Harry did not want to see came into view and immediately soured what little optimism he had left for the day ahead.

Malfoy was impeccably dressed, despite the early hour. He was alone, something which might have been unusual in other years, but Harry had observed that the blonde was spending the vast majority of his time alone this term. As if he sensed his stare, grey eyes soon found the watchful green. A scowl was aimed at Harry and he knew that Malfoy's mind was still set on what had happened between them in class a few days ago. Looking away and back down at his toast, the dark-haired boy attempted to ignore the other's presence. He would just eat and leave, avoiding all contact with the Slytherin. And if classes on Thursday and Friday were any inclination, Malfoy wouldn't be coming up to him. The blonde was clearly still embarrassed about being thrown to the floor. Harry hadn't meant it to happen, not really. But the second the cupboard was mentioned, he lost it. Why did they have to find out about that? It just sounded so pathetic. Either people were laughing at his misfortune, or worse, they were sending tragic looks of pity his way. Even Neville looked sad for him. It was excruciating.

Lost in his thoughts as he was, Harry didn't immediately catch the clack of Malfoy's shoes on the stone floor, however his instincts kicked in just in time, turning wildly in his seat as the other came to stand behind him.

The expression on Malfoy's face was stony and Harry grit his teeth at the sight.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" he bit out, hand unconsciously reaching for his wand. The grey eyes in front of him didn't miss the movement and he raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Don't be so dramatic, Potter," he drawled, the tone oddly lacking its usual smug coating. "I just came over here to ask you a question."

Harry's glare deepened. "Save it. I don't want to hear it. I'm sure you've prepared an entire list of  _questions_ , but despite what newspapers like to think, it's none of your damn business."

He expected a sarcastic retort or an infuriating grin, but Malfoy's eyes narrowed, looking exactly like he had when Harry spotted him just after reading the article – curious. It was a look that didn't suit the blonde and Harry's hair prickled at the back of his neck.

"I doubt there's anything left to tell at this point, Potter. The Prophet were pretty thorough, weren't they?"

The teasing had Harry out of his seat, but he went no further as Malfoy immediately followed up with a striking, oddly placed question and a serious tone that left Harry reeling for a moment.

"Why don't you hate muggles?"

There were several beats of silence.

Harry stared at him. "Why don- wait, what? What does that bloody question have to do with anything?"

Malfoy was unperturbed, folding his arms and standing his ground. He rolled his eyes. "Isn't it obvious. Your family are muggles and they're vile."

Harry was looking at Malfoy with bewilderment when he noticed, out of the corner of eye, Snape and Trelawney enter the hall. In any other circumstances it might have been amusing, as Snape looked deeply affronted at walking in at the same time as the eccentric professor. It was clearly completely unintentional. He was scowling at the back of her head rather distastefully as she glided ahead of him, as if her mass of hair and jangling beads personally insulted him. But his dark eyes were characteristically alert and quickly found the little scene that was unfolding at the Gryffindor table.

Harry instantly felt trapped between the two Slytherins. He focused his full attention on the blonde, expression hardening.

"Don't be an idiot, Malfoy. Yeah, they're not the greatest people, but them being muggles has nothing to do with any of it."

Angry that he had even deigned to respond, Harry stepped around the blonde, intent upon leaving.

"They're all worthless, and you know it. You're willingly blind, Potter."

Harry didn't bother to turn around, but he did throw a last comment over his shoulder, desperate to leave, but unwilling to let Malfoy's message stand.

"And you're a well-trained puppet, Malfoy. Go parrot your dad's ideals somewhere else. Look how far that pureblood drivel has gotten him."

The blonde's face was white with fury, but Harry was already walking away.

Did Malfoy really think that Harry would suddenly see things his way, just because of his relatives? Did Malfoy senior ask his son to test the waters with him on the subject? Because that interaction didn't sit right with Harry, it felt odd.

But a new worry blossomed in his chest as he left. He suddenly understood how fantastic a story this was for anyone with anti-muggle sympathies. Those sharing the Malfoys' beliefs would certainly be able to use it to their advantage. And what about Voldemort? Harry hadn't spared a thought for him in this whole thing. But, if he wished, the dark wizard could likely spin something about the story to his advantage. Harry felt ill at the thought of his home life being used as anti-muggle propaganda. He walked quickly, side-stepping the two professors, feeling dark eyes boring into the back of his head, but unwilling to look around. He finally slowed when he reached the foyer, looking up at the mass of staircases with disinterest, thoughts jumbled and stressed. What he wouldn't give for one normal day. Just one.

 

* * *

 

"Alright mate?"

Harry looked up from '30 Historic Quidditch Manoeuvres From the 19th Century' to see Ron standing over him, a parcel in his hand. How the redhead had found him buried this far back in the Herbology section of the library was anyone's guess, but even more alarming was the fact that he had apparently managed to smuggle an entire box of mini treacle tarts past Madam Pince. Harry raised his eyebrows as the lid was opened and Ron grinned down at him, the scent of sugar and caramelised stickiness radiating from each perfectly formed treat.

"Mum sent them," Ron said, not bothering to whisper. There wasn't anyone in the immediate vicinity – exactly why Harry had brought his book to this spot.

He knew why Mrs Weasley had sent them, of course. But that didn't mean Harry was any less grateful. He picked one from the box, as did Ron, who then sat it down and collapsed in the chair next to him.

"Madam Pince would have a fit if she knew," Harry said. "We better make sure we don't leave-"

He trailed off as he watched Ron take a healthy bite, the pastry base breaking up and sending sweet crumbs everywhere.

"-crumbs," he finished, unable to hide his grin. He took a bite himself, albeit a more manageable one, revelling in the deliciousness for a moment.

"So, where's Hermione?"

Ron looked around almost nervously. "Gone off to find some book on runes. Merlin knows why. For the best anyway, she'd have a fit at us eating in here."

They polished off half the box in one sitting, Harry content to enjoy himself, all thoughts of Malfoy and pureblood supremacy far away.

"Did you finish that essay for Potions?" Harry suddenly asked.

Judging by Ron's pale face, he had forgotten all about it. "Ugh, no. No way am I giving up my Sunday for that. Do you think Hermione would lend us hers?"

"I did it yesterday, actually. You can have mine if you want?"

Ron looked a little surprised, but then he perked up. "You're the best, Harry."

"Nah, your mum's the best. Her treacle tart is even better than the one served at the feast."

Ron looked rather proud as Harry said this, glancing over to the box with newfound appreciation.

 

* * *

 

"Ron, you cannot possibly manage the entire essay in one hour!"

Hermione's voice carried across the Gryffindor table, drawing any interested looks away from Harry – who had finally agreed to have dinner in the Great Hall that evening, despite his trepidation. Harry grinned at Ron, who was busy scribbling on parchment, Harry's essay concealed in his lap under the table, the other hand holding a spoon full of smooth mashed potato. He waved the spoon in Hermione's direction, almost threateningly. She eyed it with irritation, wary of the creamy mixture flying off the end and hitting her.

"Watch me, Hermione," Ron said, writing faster and popping his spoon into his mouth, thankfully swallowing before speaking again. "I intend to play chess after dinner, not get bogged down in Slughorn's fascination with the after-effects of pepper-up potions, or whatever it is."

"That's not exactly- oh, never mind," Hermione muttered, before returning to her dinner, shooting a look at Harry's amused face, but then crackling a smile of her own, seeing him perk up for the first time in what seemed like forever.

Miraculously, or perhaps not considering the fact he had a completed essay to copy from, Ron finished up his own essay within the hour, sliding Harry's back to him discreetly, wary of Hermione's watchful eyes. The two boys had a few games of chess with Hermione sitting nearby in an armchair, reading. Harry got crushed, as usual, but it was a nice way to pass the evening. It was only when he lost his fifth game that Harry checked the time, dread pooling in his stomach as he realized his meeting with Professor Dumbledore was scheduled for seven minutes from now. Getting to his feet, he reminded his two friends where he was off two, before hurrying out of the common room and into the darkening corridors.

 

* * *

 

It took him almost ten minutes to reach the familiar gargoyle that guarded the headmaster's office and he huffed out the password – the same as it had been on Friday – stepping onto the stair and taking a moment to catch his breath. The delayed anxiety was forming a tight ball in his stomach, but he hoped to get this over quickly. Knocking, he entered hastily, stepping into the trinket-filled space and immediately catching sight of the headmaster, seated at his desk, his half-moon spectacles gleaming as he looked up and gave Harry a small smile.

"Come in, Harry," he said, folding some parchment and vanishing it with his wand.

Harry awkwardly stepped inside, closing the door behind him, unable to shake the feeling that he was locking himself into something he'd rather escape from.

He politely refused the offer of a sweet and sat down, unable to look the older man in the eye. Dumbledore noticed this immediately and he sighed softly, folding his hands on the desk in front of him.

"I can't possibly offer any apology that would suffice, Harry. I'm afraid, in my determination to protect you from outside forces, I neglected to protect you from those within your own home."

Harry started at these words, not expecting them. He suddenly found himself desirous to tell the headmaster it was all right, but he couldn't quite get the words out, his hidden anger preventing his tongue from forming anything kind. He took a few moments, before letting out a soft sigh himself, finally looking directly at the other. Despite the resentment that had threatened to build in him, Harry didn't want this, whatever this was, to become the norm. He just wished for things to return to how they were a week ago.

"Sir, it really doesn't matter."

"Oh, but it does. Very much. I failed you in almost every way, Harry. You arrived here, perhaps less cared for, less loved than I would have wished. But you were safe and, on the whole, healthy. I underestimated the importance of anything outside of those simple facts and that was a mistake. I overestimated your aunt's nature, hoped that she would, in time, leave her ill feelings for your parents behind. Alas…"

They both sat in silence for a moment, each contemplating the situation.

Harry finally spoke.

"What about the, um, investigation, sir?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Ah," Dumbledore sighed. "Already underway. I am seeing to it personally, to alleviate any outside interference."

For that, at least, Harry was grateful.

"I visited your relatives yesterday evening. That was why I scheduled to see you today. I must tell you, your cousin seemed wholly confused as to why he even spoke to anyone in the first place, let alone divulged so many secrets his family would have wished to hide. It highly suggests magical interference, something I am taking very seriously."

Harry raised his eyebrows in wonder, his disappointment in Dudley alleviating slightly. "You mean, someone confounded him or something?"

Dumbledore made a small noise of agreement. "That, or veritaserum, I suspect. In any case, illegal action. I will direct this to the journalist in question and see if her response merits any follow-up. Miranda Chesire is relatively new to the Prophet. I know little of her, her methods or allegiances."

The situation suddenly seemed more complicated than before and Harry's head ached.

"Harry," Dumbledore spoke softly, making the boy look up. "I take full responsibility for the unhappiness you endured. After all, I placed you there, knowing that it wasn't an ideal home. My hopes may have blinded me, but that does not excuse my actions."

Harry slumped slightly in his seat, not quite sure what to make of that. It was a while before he spoke.

"So, you didn't know exactly how they felt about me? Or everything that went on?"

There it was. A direct question. One he had told himself he wouldn't ask, in fear of ruining Dumbledore in his eyes forever. Harry held his breath as he waited for the answer.

The headmaster seemed to wilt slightly, and he removed his glasses to pinch the bridge between his nose before speaking.

"No. I understood that they were unpleasant. I knew they might never love you as they could their own son, but I didn't expect such neglect or cruelty. I thought Petunia might see some of her sister in you. A fool's hope and a wise man's mistake."

Harry let out the breath he had been holding, letting the sincerity of the words wash over him. He couldn't bring himself to offer either a harsh reprimand or words of comfort, so he simply nodded his head.

"Alright," Harry said, making Dumbledore place his glasses back on his nose and fix him with a look he couldn't decipher.

 

* * *

 

Harry had stayed for another half an hour, going over the details of Dumbledore's visit to Number Four, Privet Drive. In one respect, Harry would have loved to have seen Uncle Vernon's face, but on the other, he was glad to be removed from the situation. Which is why, when asked if he wished to sit in on the next meeting between the headmaster and the Dursleys, he refused. Dumbledore didn't press the issue, arranging to speak to Harry in two days' time.

Lost in thought, he rounded a corridor on his way back to Gryffindor Tower when he suddenly stopped dead. Malfoy was leaning against the wall a little way down, casually examining his cuticles in a falsely nonchalant manner. Harry's eyes narrowed, but inwardly he sighed, unwilling to engage with the Slytherin for the second time that day.

Noting that the blonde didn't have his wand in hand, he resisted drawing his own in an attempt to keeps things casual and just leave. But he left his right arm hovering over the pocket his wand was hidden away in, just in case.

"I'm really not in the mood for whatever it is, Malfoy," he said, voice echoing along the empty stone passage. There weren't even any portraits on this particular corridor to break up the tense silence.

"That's too bad, Potter. Do you honestly think I'd let you insult my father like that?"

Harry's mind reeled back to breakfast and he mentally sighed. He should have known the blonde would be particularly sensitive to that comment, especially considering how Mr Malfoy had fallen far out of favour after last year's Department of Mysteries fiasco. But Harry found it impossible to feel sorry for a man who had happily watched him being tortured in the graveyard and then attempted to murder him and his friends a year later. The elder Malfoy deserved everything he got.

"I was willing to let the Defense Against the Dark Arts thing slide, but no one insults the Malfoy family like that, not even you."

The blonde's words were hard, laced with the same anger that had him stamping on Harry's face on the Hogwarts Express. The conversational curiosity of this morning had gone. Had something happened, beyond Harry's taunt? In fact, looking closely, Malfoy's hair was out of place and his face appeared slightly sweaty. Frowning, he tried to make sense of it, falling short.

Despite his uncharacteristic untidiness, the Slytherin's words were clear and even and he stepped away from the wall, casual pretense evaporating.

"You weren't quite this rattled this morning, Malfoy. What happened? Voldemort's plans not going too well?"

Harry meant to taunt, but he realised that his words hit far closer to home than he ever could have expected, as the blonde froze, looking at him with wide eyes.

"That's it, isn't it? Something is going on. I knew-"

Harry suddenly ducked as a beam of red light shot towards him, hand darting into his robes to draw his own, casting a shield just in time for a second spell to smash against it. His reflexes were superior to Malfoy's casting abilities and they both knew it.

Raising his arm to cast Expelliarmus, Harry was horrified when a large, fat hand wrapped around his wrist and yanked it back, stopping his spell mid-casting. He turned his head to find himself face-to-face with Goyle's unpleasant smile, his monstrous grip intact on Harry's arm. He elbowed him in the stomach, but the bigger boy barely let go for a moment, before the boy-who-lived found himself pushed up against the wall, with Goyle's forearm crushing into his neck. Malfoy's follow-up spell sent his wand flying, leaving him utterly defenseless. He choked slightly when Goyle applied pressure, his round face sadistically bent down to watch the green eyes hungrily. So much for Malfoy spending most of his time alone this term.

"Goyle," Malfoy warned, walking up to the pair. The larger boy let out a disappointed huff and loosened his hold slightly. Harry pulled at the overweight, muscled arm trapping him, to no avail.

"Incarcerous," Malfoy muttered, pointing at Harry's straining hands, which were pulled behind him and bound immediately. Harry stopped struggling for a moment, realising the energy he was wasting. Luckily, not that it made much of a difference at the moment, Malfoy's other goon was nowhere to be seen. Dealing with Goyle would be difficult enough, never mind competing with Crabbe too.

"Let me go," Harry bit out, directing this to the blonde, rather than the boy actually holding him down. He knew who was in charge here.

"No," Malfoy said, simply.

"What do you want?" Harry snapped, patience deserting him, his wrists twisting in their bonds behind him.

"You have no respect for real wizards, Potter."

"And by 'real wizards', you mean you, your family and Voldemort, right?"

Malfoy's face was sour. "I think that because you were raised by filth, you never learnt the respect and fear that our world shows to my family and our… associates. And that is a mistake. Perhaps not even your own fault, given what I read in the newspaper. They treated you like a common servant. But I'd advise you to learn quickly, Potter. He's going to win. And then you'll know what it's like to show my father some respect."

Harry all but laughed in Malfoy's face. "You're blaming my lack of respect for Voldemort and his supporters on the fact that I was raised by muggles? Do you suddenly think everything about me has to do with my upbringing, Malfoy? I told you, just because you learnt something about my home life, it doesn't change me or who I have been ever since you met me. I don't respect him because he murdered my parents and countless others! And I don't respect your family because they bow down to the orders of a madman who kills without remorse and allows people like Bellatrix and Fenrir Greyback to do as they please."

Malfoy's teeth were bared slightly and Harry knew that this was not the fearful response the blonde had hoped for.

"My father has chosen the winning side!" he grit out.

Harry stared the other down, willing the seriousness of his next words to somehow break through the Slytherin's closed mind.

"Your father chose the side that he thinks has the most power. He's vile and cruel, and no matter how powerful you believe him to be, he'll always be kissing the robes of Voldemort. You're all indebted to him and you know it."

It was the truth, plain and simple, but perhaps that is what caused Malfoy to get so angry. The truth unveiled in one direct, hard-hitting line.

Gesturing for Goyle to move aside, Malfoy stepped up to Harry, digging his wand into the boy's ribs viciously. Harry winced, before aiming a well-placed kick to Malfoy's shins. He let out a quiet yelp, glaring down at the Gryffindor.

"You're going to be-"

Malfoy's threat was cut short at the sound of voices echoing from down the corridor, clearly coming toward the little party. The blonde's head snapped to the side, listening with strained ears, mouth tightening at the thought of an interruption, his wand pushing farther into Harry's side in frustration.

When he could no longer deny that the voices were coming closer, Malfoy let out a disgruntled sigh, turning to face Harry, leaning right in.

"You got lucky this time, Potter. Come on Goyle, quickly."

The two Slytherins disappeared down the corridor, leaving Harry breathing heavily against the wall, his arms still bound. Glaring in the direction they had gone, he stepped away from the stone and tried to locate his wand in the dim, catching sight of it a few metres away. Awkwardly maneuvering his bound wrists to the ground, he managed to get it in hand and undid the binding spell, just as Peeves came whizzing around the corner.

Harry could have laughed. Peeves was clearly the 'voices' they had heard, his sarcastic, nonsensical tones sounding like several people as they echoed along the corridors.

"Well, if it isn't wee little Potty!" Peeves sneered, and suddenly Harry was a little less glad to see him. However, he realised what a close call it had been, so in a move that completely threw the poltergeist, he looked up at him, his expression sincere.

"Thanks Peeves."

With that, he took off down the corridor, unwilling to wait and see the reaction. He doubted it would be well received once the ghostly troublemaker got over his initial confusion. Rubbing his sore wrists, Harry debated on the wisdom of traversing the corridors by himself. He hadn't seen Malfoy so cold and angry in a long time, and it was clear that his threat was very real. Regardless, it wasn't a pleasant experience finding yourself in a chokehold in a darkened corridor, at the mercy of the sons of two Death Eaters.

Examining his left wrist in the faint light of a passing window, Harry cursed at the raw lines visible there.

"Watch your language, Potter. Five points from Gryffindor."

Oh, of all the luck. Harry almost groaned aloud at Snape's voice, turning to see the man sweeping toward him, his mouth set in a firm line. Dark eyes immediately fell on the wrist Harry had been peering at.

For one terrible moment Snape's gaze widened and Harry looked at him, confusion written in his features, before looking down at the wrist and making the connection. The raw marks resembled rather purposeful cuts in the dim light.

"It's not- I didn't, uh, someone was playing a joke and bound my wrists together," Harry said, rather quickly, willing Snape not to ask further questions. It was too embarrassing a story, never mind admitting that Malfoy got the best of him.

Snape seem to simmer back down to his bored self, eyes focused on Harry's own for a moment, reading the half-truth in them.

"A joke? I see. How hilarious."

Internally sighing, Harry willed Snape to just go away, but luck had clearly abandoned him the moment he left Dumbledore's office that evening, for Snape made no move to leave. Instead, Harry made to step around him, walking quickly, with purpose.

"Potter," Snape's voice followed him, echoing from the same spot the man had stood moments ago. "It would be all too Gryffindor to take certain threats lightly and allow yourself to be distracted by press clippings and dramatics. Don't be a fool."

And with those words, he was gone. Harry knew Snape was not given the chance to perform legilimency properly, but he had still somehow known something was going on. Frowning at the man's back, he turned and hurried away, deciding there and then not to tell Ron or Hermione about any of this. They worried about him enough, but perhaps he'd venture out alone less often. Snape was a git, but there was something chilling in his final words, something that held back the anger he should have felt at the 'press clippings' comment. Harry shivered, feeling, rather than knowing, that the Prophet had unknowingly started something far more sinister than an embarrassing inside look at his life. Everything was all out of sorts. Harry himself, Malfoy's behavior, Snape's words and Dumbledore's quiet disappointment in himself. Returning to the warmth of the common room and the familiarity of Ron and Hermione's chatter did little to shift the unease Harry felt, unable to match up the day's events in his head. He stole another glance at his marked wrists, willing the red lines to disappear along with this entire mess.


	3. Chapter 3

 

While Harry was spared a second confrontation with Malfoy in the weeks that followed the Slytherin ambush in the corridors, everything with the press and the Dursleys got so much messier. By the second week of October, The Daily Prophet had managed to secure a picture of Petunia and Vernon, the two dressed in their finest and apparently at some work function of Grunnings. How they had managed to take or acquire the (moving) photograph was a mystery, but Harry supposed it would be all too easy for one of the paper's photographers to disguise themselves amongst the guests of the tedious-looking party to snap the image.

Harry sat at breakfast, looking down at the picture with the feeling that he had somehow vacated his body. It was surreal to see his aunt pursing her lips in a tight kind of smile and Vernon haughtily fixing his tie on the front of a wizard's paper. The collision of his two worlds was complete, and this was the result. Appetite gone, he looked around, the feeling of déjà vu washing over him as he saw numerous heads – though far less than last time – lost in the front page, wondering, whispering, fascinated at finding out what Harry Potter's controversial family actually looked like. Minus Dudley, of course.

Ron was scanning the piece for anything of interest, as Harry hadn't the will to read it at this point. Hermione was studying it over his shoulder, her brown eyes clearly showing her determination not to miss anything of relevance. All he felt now was a dull tiredness, willing the entire situation to die down. But if his last meeting with Dumbledore was any inclination, he would have no such luck. The Dursleys had been rather forthright about their dislike of their sixteen-year-old nephew and the magical world in general, but that didn't directly give evidence of abuse or otherwise.

One of the few genuinely surprising and touching moments to have come out of the entire thing had occurred three weeks back, when Mrs and Mr Weasley had arrived at Dumbledore's office, determination ablaze in Ron's mother's eyes, and announced their intention to take Harry in when this was all over. Harry was equal parts embarrassed and truly grateful by the time he had been called to and left that particular meeting, and although no decisions could be made, or would have to be made, until the summer, he felt a little lighter that evening. Initially wary of Ron's reaction to his family's overt generosity, he felt stupid after the redhead had grinned at him, elbowing him in the side for his worry.

Speaking of Ron, the boy folding his paper pulled Harry back to reality and he glanced over at his friends.

"So?"

The other boy shrugged. "Nothing much in there, really. Relying on the photograph for shock value, I'd say. Bit weird seeing them on the front page though…"

Harry silently agreed. He had a sudden need to get up and leave, but he felt that would draw even more attention to himself, so he slumped in his seat and focused on the tea in front of him.

As if sensing his will to flee, Hermione reached across and placed her hand on his arm.

"There really isn't anything of importance in there, Harry. They clearly don't have anything else to print on all of this."

Ron was nodding beside her and Harry willed them to understand that the photograph was enough, but he appreciated their approach.

When it looked like he wasn't going to say anything further, Hermione pulled back and gave him a sad smile. "Are you sure you don't want to come to Hogsmeade, Harry? It might do you good to get away from all of this for a couple of hours.

Harry shook his head. "It seems like there're going to be more students out of the castle at this point. I'd rather give it a miss, if that's alright?"

Hermione hadn't the heart to argue or push the issue, though he could tell she really wanted to. But she said nothing more, simply nodding her assent. Twenty minutes later, she and Ron vacated the hall, along with numerous other students, all intent upon enjoying the day outside in the wizarding village.

Harry averted his eyes when Hermione looked back one last time, guilt written into her features. Sighing, he drained his now cold cup of tea and was about to leave for the library when an owl landed down, rather roughly, right in front of him, making him jump back slightly.

Judging by the large bird's intent stare, the small letter attached to her leg was for him. Harry collected it carefully, turning the envelope over to reveal Dumbledore's neat script, the softly looping hand causing an odd sense of dread in Harry's stomach.

 

* * *

 

Harry felt completely sick. Standing outside of the gargoyle that guarded the headmaster's office, he cursed his very existence. Clutched in his hand was the letter from the headmaster, rather gently announcing the imminent arrival of his relatives. To Hogwarts. The Dursleys at Hogwarts. The very idea boggled the mind. And there he was thinking the photograph had been bizarre.

It would seem that several witches and wizards had targeted both Petunia and Vernon in the short few hours since their photograph had been revealed to the magical world. As soon as they had ventured into town, away from the safety of their home, and had been recognised by a discerning wizard or two, a series of nasty curses had been aimed at their travelling car, almost causing them to crash. For their safety, and the difficulty of the ongoing case, Dumbledore had asked Dedalus Diggle to bring the couple and their son to see him in order to provide safer arrangements until the media outrage died down.

The letter had merely been to inform Harry of their presence, stating that he need not see them if he didn't wish to. However, something had carried him to the office, despite the building nausea in his stomach. Whether it was an internal curiosity at seeing his family so out of place in his world, or because he wanted to broach the subject of the media, Harry couldn't say. But here he was, despite his inner desire to turn heel and run.

Taking a deep breath, he moved forward and muttered the password half-heartedly, unknowingly walking into quite the dramatic scene.

 

* * *

 

Harry stopped short the second he entered the headmaster's office. Vernon's face was already purple, and he was waving his arms rather comically, mid-rant, in front of a rather unimpressed Albus Dumbledore.

The door snapping shut behind him drew everyone's attention and Harry froze upon seeing Snape's dark eyes on him from a far corner of the room.

However, he didn't have time to ponder the man's presence, as his uncle decided to redirect his tirade of anger onto the new addition to the room. Never one for subtlety, his beady eyes narrowed as soon as he caught sight of Harry.

"Boy!" he snapped, drawing everyone's attention. "What have you been telling these frea- these people about us? Nasty little lies. We've been hounded. Hounded! By  _your lot_."

Vernon Dursley would never understand the effect his tone, words and mere presence would have on all involved in that little scene. Dumbledore's face grew stony, studying the interaction with a cold intensity. Petunia, who was seated in front of the headmaster's desk, grew oddly fidgety, as if sensing the impression her husband was making – a flighty manner she usually saved for worrying over the neighbours. Dudley pressed himself into the far wall, as if attempting to make his large body disappear through it.

Harry, on the other hand, well used to his uncle's mannerisms, stood his ground.

"I didn't say anything. Ask your son."

Vernon turned that ugly shade of puce that really flagged his temper and Harry instantly remembered where he was and who was there to witness it all. Glancing to Snape, his body jolted at the intense expression on the man's face, his pale visage firmly focused on his most hated student.

"Don't bring our Dudley into this! This has you written all over it. You and your lot probably tricked him with your,  _you know what!"_  Vernon was gesturing wildly, which Harry roughly translated into an attempt to convey the word 'magic.'

"Magic?" he asked, sarcastically, his flat delivery unconsciously attempting to rile the man up even more. But Vernon didn't have a chance to answer. Petunia seemed to recover from her nerves and was now looking at Harry with her usual brand of distaste.

"Don't speak to Vernon that way. Lord knows what you did to my little boy!"

" _Little_?"

A new voice, dripping with antagonism, sounded from Snape, joining the conversation. Petunia rounded on him with a nasty expression she usually reserved for Harry.

"Stay out of this, Snape!"

Snape's lips had curled into a cruel smile, but for once it wasn't directed at his student, but the rather thin and bony woman in front of him.

His silence only incensed Petunia and she turned a cold shoulder to him, approaching her son and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Don't think you're in a position of power here. We may be stuck in this castle, in your little world," she spat. "But I know you. You'll always just be that scrawny boy from Spinner's End."

Harry's mouth fell open at her words, his eyes darting between them, unable to understand this exchange. It sounded as if his aunt  _knew_  Snape.

The Slytherin professor lost his smile at her words, his expression giving way to cold fury. However, Harry's shock must have caught his eye, as he immediately straightened up and said no more, content to stare at Petunia with absolute loathing, but unwilling to say more in front of their small audience.

"I think that's enough," Dumbledore said, standing. "Harry, I didn't expect to see you."

Harry shrugged awkwardly, unable to explain why he felt he needed to come here. But the headmaster seemed to understand, for he didn't pry further, turning to address the Dursleys. Harry's eyes wandered to Dudley, who seemed to be trying to escape the grip his mother had on him.

"As I was saying," the headmaster continued. "We can arrange for additional security to accompany you when you vacate Privet Drive for work and other errands, or we can place you in a safe house. Your home is still very well hidden, but I understand that may feel unsafe there. It is your choice."

Despite the generous offer, there was no warmth in Dumbledore's tone and Harry suddenly appreciated that the elder man was truly on his side in all of this.

Petunia and Vernon remained silent, clearly unhappy with anything and everything that was, and could ever be, offered to them. It was Dudley who finally spoke up, his voice a little shaky.

"Um, I'd like to go somewhere else. A safe house."

Both of his parents immediately turned to him with gaping expressions, as if he had suddenly announced his intention to become a trapeze artist.

Sensing his cousin's gaze, Dudley turned to Harry, his expression growing sheepish and pained in equal measure.

Silence reigned.

Harry surprised himself by speaking first, the words tumbling from his lips before he could stop them. "Why did you talk to the press, Dudley? Were you really coerced? Or tricked or something? Is that why you told them everything about me?"

A weird hush descended on the room. Dudley's face coloured, but he nodded. "Yeah. I didn't mean to get mum and dad in trouble."

Harry bitterly considered this answer. "Right."

"Er, they say you won't be living with us anymore. You probably prefer that right? I know things weren't always…" He trailed off, wary of the eyes watching him, but Harry was left looking at him in shock.

Vernon suddenly cleared his throat loudly. "We'll take the safe house thingy. But only until this all dies down. That's what you want, right Dudley?

The boy nodded, but he didn't take his eyes off Harry. His uncle was clearly growing nervous as his son's odd behaviour, speaking very loudly once again, demanding a twenty-four-hour guard and his choice of location. Judging by Dumbledore's expression, it was highly unlikely that all of his demands would be met.

With the beefy man distracting the headmaster and his aunt, Harry moved a little closer to Dudley, speaking in low tones.

"Er, are you alright, Dudley?"

The larger boy shrugged, looking at his parents warily.

"Things have been a bit weird since that Dementhingy attacked last summer. You saved my life."

Blinking in surprise, Harry then shook his head.

Dudley, as if sensing his attempted nonchalance, stepped forward, surprisingly keeping his usually booming voice to a low murmur.

"I didn't mean to mess anything up for you, you know. Didn't even know what I'd said until he," he pointed toward the headmaster, "showed up."

Harry sighed, almost annoyed that he couldn't blame his cousin for this particular misfortune. His aunt and uncle were the cause of his childhood misery and while Dudley had definitely contributed, he was a kid following his father and mother's example. Now he couldn't even blame him for letting his secrets out. It was maddening. Harry wanted someone to direct his frustration at.

"What happens now?" Dudley asked.

Harry shook his head.

Dudley frowned at the evasive behaviour.

"What about Voldemberg, or whatever his name is?"

Harry snorted, unable to help himself.

"Voldemort," he corrected, his momentary mirth seeming to lift Dudley's expression slightly. "He's still out there."

An awkward silence then permeated the air, broken by the occasional outburst from Vernon. However, as soon as Harry turned away from his larger cousin, he caught Snape staring at him with an unwelcome curiosity, his keen eyes alert in a way that Harry really didn't like.

Harry didn't wait to see the Dursleys off. Once a plan had been agreed, the headmaster asked if his aunt and uncle had anything to say to Harry; a very direct and rather intimidating way of requesting that they at least apologise for some of their behaviour. Predictably, this had gone nowhere, ending with Dumbledore's cool promise to visit the small family at their arranged lodgings very soon – the hint of a cold threat hidden in the undercurrent of his soft tone. Harry took that as permission to leave, glancing at Dudley and between his aunt and Snape one more time before slipping out the door with a nod to the headmaster.

His mind whirled as he started down the corridor. Burning curiosity at his aunt's exchange with Snape filled him, and he replayed their words to one another over and over as he walked. How had she known where Snape was from? It was utterly bizarre, and he knew he wouldn't easily find an answer. He couldn't very well ask Petunia or Snape. Either of them would kill him just for asking.

Whilst bemoaning the fact that his life has taken an even more oddly complicated turn, Harry's mind welcomed the distraction from thoughts of newspapers and Malfoy's plotting, his mind pouring over the possibility of how the greasy bat of the dungeons would know horse-faced Petunia Dursley, of all people.

 

* * *

 

Harry's curiosity carried over to his Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson that following Monday. So focused on the professor in front of him, Harry didn't immediately notice that Malfoy sat one seat over from him. It was only when a crumpled piece of paper landed in front of him that he was startled out of his stupor. Glancing down at it, he first looked to Ron and Hermione questioningly. However, Hermione was furiously scribbling on parchment and Ron was half dozing in his chair, his quill hanging from his fingers precariously.

Finally turning to the other side of him, Harry's mouth tightened at the sight of blonde hair. Snatching up the note, he unfolded it with impatience.

'Nice portrait of your little family in the paper over the weekend. You let those people run your life, Potter? Really?'

Harry could sense the snide tone in the words and let out a furious breath, refusing to look at the other boy. Instead, he chose to tear the note into shreds, letting the remains litter his desk

"That's rich," Harry muttered, wary eyes on Snape who was prowling several rows in front, lecturing on the more gruesome effects of a blood boiling curse. "Coming from someone in deep with the Death Eaters."

Silence greeted these words, but still Harry didn't look at the other boy.

"Have you forgotten our little chat a few weeks back, Potter?" Malfoy's voice was very quiet.

"You mean the one where you needed Goyle to back you up? Yeah, I remember."

More silence.

"You think you'd be more careful about antagonising me. Considering who you assume I'm associated with…"

The thinly veiled threat drew a short laugh from Harry and he finally turned to face cold grey eyes.

"Voldemort wants me dead, Malfoy, and I'm pretty sure he'll want to do it personally. You're the least of my problems."

Apart from a slight cringe at the Dark Lord's name, Malfoy didn't immediately react to the Gryffindor's words. The blonde eventually opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted when Snape called out Harry's name, sharply and derisively.

"Potter. Get up here."

Glancing back at the blonde, Harry stood, suddenly aware of the fact that he hadn't been listening.

Standing a safe distance away from his professor, Harry looked at him expectantly, trying to disguise both the curiosity over their last encounter and his anxiety at what he was about to be asked to do. Legilimency really was a tedious trait in someone you wanted to hide secrets from.

"I want you to attempt any blocking spell that will be of use against a blood boiling curse. As you're  _no doubt_  aware, considering the lecture I just gave to the class, a generic Protego will have zero effect. Unfortunately, I cannot cast the blood boiling incantation in a classroom setting, so you'll just have to use your imagination, Potter."

Snape's silky voice was snide to the point of infuriation.

Wracking his brains, Harry tried to think of anything that could work. Defence was his best class and he'd be damned if he'd let the man in front of him treat him like he had in Potions for all those years. This was a subject Harry actually liked and excelled at. But something this specific?

Then Snape's words echoed back to him. A  _generic_  Protego.

Pulling his wand from his robes and gripping it tightly, Harry pointed it upward. "Protego totalum!"

A large burst of magic erupted then, more powerful than its lesser form, creating a sturdy shield of light that extended all the way up to the high ceiling.

When the spell finally died away, Harry could tell by Snape's unpleasant expression that he'd done the right thing and a jerky nod of the professor's head dismissed him back to his seat, where Ron was grinning at him, finally awake and revelling in Harry's small victory.

Matching Ron's expression, Harry sat, only noticing another note on the desk as he stowed his wand away. Sighing hard, he resisted looking back over at Malfoy, unfolding this second piece of paper.

A small frown creased his face as he was met with the picture of Petunia and Vernon from the paper, but alarmingly, in a clear threat that seemed far less innocent than Malfoy's previous note, there were two ominous, heavily-lined scratches across both of the Dursleys' eyes in red ink.

Foreboding filled Harry's chest and he glanced sideways at the blonde Slytherin, who raised his eyebrows back at him in a questioning way. Unwilling to address the disturbing image, he stuffed it in his pocket and fixed his eyes on Snape for the remainder of the lesson.

 

* * *

 

Harry would come to see Wednesdays as a day of dread. And despite the profound effect the initial Wednesday that had put all of these events in motion had been, the Wednesday following Malfoy's note turned out to be much worse. So much worse.

Getting through the day unscathed, he had retired to the common room with Ron and Hermione to finish off some homework when Professor McGonagall had entered Gryffindor Tower, asking him to accompany her to the headmaster's office. Harry knew something was off, judging by her pale face and not-so-easily disguised sense of urgency. However, when he arrived, he was informed by a very grave Professor Dumbledore that there had been a double attack, one at Vernon Dursley's workplace and the other at the post office local to where the Dursleys had been hidden. In short, his aunt and uncle were both missing, with rather gruesome scenes left behind at each disappearance, including the murder of three other muggles. Dumbledore did not disguise the fact that Voldemort was clearly at the root of it all, not that this fact was ever really up for debate.

Vernon had insisted on journeying to his job every day, with a wizard – who was being treated for the after-effects of prolonged Cruciatus exposure at St Mungo's – providing protection. And Petunia had been at the post office mailing a rather nasty letter of complaint to the local council back in Surrey regarding the policy of dog walking in the Privet Drive area. Her appointed guardian was dead.

Both scenes had muggle witnesses who described men in dark cloaks and white masks carrying out the bloodshed and kidnapping, though none could say where these people had disappeared to.

Harry listened to all of this with a numbness that spread from his chest all the way down to his toes. He couldn't think of a single thing to say, not even when he was told that Dudley was beside himself, screaming for his Aunt Marge – a woman Harry knew he had never had any time for.

"He also asked for you, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly, noting Harry's frozen body with unbridled concern.

"Oh, right," Harry finally said, the words sounding dumb to his own ears, slowly coming back to reality. Voldemort had his aunt and uncle? How was he supposed to feel about this? God, he truly couldn't feel anything. Were they even alive? Why would he take them and not just kill them? Why would he care?

This wasn't like Sirius and the Department of Mysteries fiasco. This worry or grief was different, if you could even call it grief. His relatives hated him and the feeling was almost mutual. But they were in deep trouble. Maybe they were actually dead? Could you hate dead people? Was that allowed?

Sitting in the straight-backed chair, Harry's spine was stiff and sore, but he neglected to move, not even to touch the tea Dumbledore had fetched for him.

He sat in that same position as the headmaster assured him of all kinds of things, how anything he might be feeling was normal, particularly because of the tenuous relationship between him and his aunt and uncle. And that they were doing everything they could to locate them. Eventually, Harry stopped listening, his brain coming to focus on only one thing, the image burning in front of his eyelids, the red standing out vividly in his mind's eye.

Malfoy's disturbing little manipulation of his aunt and uncle's portrait. The blonde had all but declared them dead in Defence class and Harry had simply put it out of his mind, paying him no heed.

A rush of anger hit him, causing his fists to clench out of sight. And he knew, without a doubt, that the first thing he was going to do was seek out the Slytherin.

Looking up at Dumbledore, Harry mumbled his agreement to see Dudley the next day, then begged to be let go, as he needed time alone. Dumbledore insisted on walking him back to the tower and Harry allowed it, trailing beside the man in silence until they parted at the portrait, Dumbledore offering kind words and gentle tidings that Harry couldn't wait to get away from.

Storming up to his dormitory, passing Ron and Hermione's questioning faces without a single glance, he grabbed the Marauder's Map and threw his invisibility cloak around him, stealing out of the tower and down into the evening corridors, his mind bent on one person.

Scanning the map in a dark alcove, he finally caught sight of the subject of his thoughts. Malfoy was standing in the girls' bathroom on the second floor; Moaning Myrtle's bathroom of all places. But Harry's wired mind didn't even pause to think of this as odd, simply stowing the map away and picking up his pace, pulling out his wand as he went, blind fury alight in his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Draco Malfoy's pale visage was fixed on a filthy mirror across the room, his face void of anything beyond a wild, internal sort of panic; grey eyes overly alert and alarmingly wide. Another time, the sight might have made Harry stop short, but his fury kept his wand arm steady as he pulled off his invisibility cloak, the heavy door banging shut behind him. The blonde jumped immediately and whirled around like a startled animal; wand trained on the other, automatically mirroring Harry's aggressive stance.

However, despite Malfoy's steady wand arm, the boy was a mess. His dark shirt was askew, odd buttons undone as it sat bedraggled against his chest – suit jacket nowhere to be seen. His hair was lank, sticking to his forehead where sweat was clearly pooling, and his chest heaved with unexpended adrenaline.

Harry took in the sight with a note of confusion and curiosity, the building questions threatening to shake some of the anger that had fuelled his way here.

Retaining his stiff posture, he watched the other boy, finding it odd that the clearly unstable Slytherin had yet to move against him, or begin his inevitable taunts. Something was amiss. Harry found it in himself to speak first, the words spitting from his mouth like acid.

"You knew," Harry bit out, his voice ricocheting off the ancient bathroom tiles, the slight echo surrounding Malfoy on all sides.

"Knew wh-"

"You  _knew_!" Harry shouted, refusing to allow the boy to finish his retort, enraged at the pretence the other had been about to feign. "That he was planning on taking the Dursleys. Your sick goddamn note, Malfoy. I didn't get it at the time, but I do now, make no mistake."

If possible, Malfoy's face paled further, and Harry's eyes noted that the wand aimed at him was now shaking.

"I didn't even- it's not…"

Harry's eyes narrowed.

Malfoy seemed unable to get the words out, frustration building on his face, causing ugly blotches of red to build on his neck. There was a momentary pause.

"Merlin Potter, that doesn't matter at this point!" The blonde was shouting himself now, his wand arm down, whole body beginning to tremble. Harry's face melted into surprise for a moment, unable to understand the behaviour he was seeing.

"What do you mean?" he snapped, almost daring the other to name something more distasteful.

Malfoy spun around, actually turning his back on the green-eyed boy in favour of grabbing a slightly damp piece of parchment from behind him, laying in a small pool of water on one of the sinks.

Grasping it firmly in his fist, he turned back to Harry, approaching, waving it around as he stepped closer.

"I've been instructed to pass a message on to you, Potter."

The blonde's voice was uncharacteristically high, and the mad look was back in his eyes, but now that he was closer, Harry could see that something seemed rather desperate in the other's expression, his pinched face clearly uncomfortable with whatever he was about to say.

"What message?"

Despite the distraction that Malfoy was providing, Harry's gaze wandered down to the soggy letter, suddenly dreading its contents. He didn't want to know what was written there, that much he knew.

Malfoy opened his mouth to speak before closing it again, squeezing his eyes shut.

"The Dark Lord has instructed me to inform you that he has your aunt and uncle. They're still alive and will remain that way only if you come to him. Willingly."

Harry's heart stopped; his eyes now trained on the other in absolute horror. Hearing Malfoy address Voldemort as the Dark Lord was oddly chilling, not to mention how frightening it was that his school nemesis was under direct orders from him. He always supposed that Malfoy was under the command of his father or his Death Eater-connected family in general, but no, here he was admitting that he was doing Voldemort's direct bidding. And Voldemort's bidding was having Harry surrender himself for his relatives.

Silence reigned over the two of them, the dripping of water somewhere in a far corner the only disturbance.

Malfoy was watching him closely, his wand long forgotten. It was in that moment that Harry lowered his own and the Slytherin's wide eyes watched it fall to the boy's side, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion, a bead of sweat dropping between them and rolling down his face.

"There's no way he'll let them go," Harry finally said, his voice quieter than it had been, the building dread chasing away the anger. "Even if I do go to him. He'll kill them."

Malfoy said nothing for a long time, but when he did, his voice shook slightly.

"He said it's your choice. No one is to force you."

Harry couldn't find words. Nausea pooled inside him, mingling with the mounting fear he could feel agitating his heart. Was he really supposed to just hand himself over to Voldemort at the behest of Draco Malfoy? Suddenly the world of bad press and newspaper clippings seemed very far away.

"You're actually thinking about doing it."

Malfoy's tone pulled Harry from his own thoughts, and he found the boy staring at him, more controlled than he had been moments ago.

"Seriously, Potter? For those muggles, you'd actually…"

The sentence trailed off, as if the Slytherin realised what he had been saying.

Harry said nothing, but a moment later he jumped, and his wand shot out to focus on the boy in front as Malfoy let out an alarming, mocking laugh. Infuriated at first, Harry's face set into a look of pure loathing, however, it melted away when Malfoy flung the letter he had been clutching away from himself, allowing it to land on the grimy floor without a care.

"This is insane," the boy whispered, as if addressing both Harry and himself.

"You know, I thought I would be happy. I thought that when I finally won against you, everything would make sense." Malfoy seemed to be struggling with his next words. "But I don't want to be the fool to pass on these messages, I want no bloody part of  _any of it_!" The weight of those words hit Harry like a tonne of bricks, and he gaped at Malfoy, fully aware that he had just watched the other admit a terrible, life-altering and dangerous secret.

The expression on Harry's face must have pulled the blonde back to reality as he froze a moment later, horror dawning in his face, as if realising what he had just said aloud – and knowing the consequences if it ever got back to his unforgiving master.

And despite all the years of animosity, the hate that had brought him here and the mistakes the Slytherin had yet to pay for, as soon as Harry saw him slipping, ready to hide from the truth he had just uttered, he jumped in.

"Me neither."

And with those two words, the world came crashing down on the two boys, their differences momentarily brushed aside in one single mutual understanding. They were both so ingrained in this war, in too deep and with no way out. And neither of them wanted to be there.

 

* * *

 

"You…" Malfoy trailed off, watching Harry with a guarded expression. But the words were clearly lost, as the blonde suddenly sighed and stumbled over to one of the sinks, collapsing against it, head dropping to his hands in exhaustion. It was very clear that Draco Malfoy simply didn't care anymore, something in him had shattered.

"I didn't know he was really going to take your relatives, Potter. It was talked about, but when I sent you that note, nothing had happened, I was just trying to scare you."

The words were so quiet, Harry almost missed them. He wanted to argue back, say that the details didn't matter. Malfoy had still sent it with malicious intentions, gleefully anticipating the hurt and damage it would cause. But what was the point?

"Like you said," Harry muttered. "It doesn't matter now. Voldemort has them. And now he wants me."

Malfoy flinched at the name, before running a hand through his limp hair. "And you're seriously thinking of going to him. Really, Saint Potter until the end?"

"I don't exactly have a choice, do I?"

Malfoy snorted, his tone taking on its familiar haughtiness. "That's exactly what you have. You said it yourself. He'll kill them anyway."

"Are you really trying to dissuade me from acting against the outcome he, your dad and Death Eater friends are no doubt hoping for?"

The words were like a slap to the face for the blonde and his mouth immediately tightened, eyes darting to the abandoned note.

"Won't your parents be furious?"

The mention of his parents had Malfoy's face positively gaunt and it was then that Harry truly understood something about the shaken boy standing in front of him. Despite everything he detested about Draco Malfoy, one thing was abundantly clear, the blonde was terrified, not of, but  _for_  his family.

"You're worried about what he'll do to them if you fail him."

Malfoy was now the one gaping at Harry, as if trying to work out how the dark-haired boy had made such a leap.

"But then why would you say anything tonight? Why not just lead me to Voldemort. It's a win-win for you, isn't it?"

Malfoy gathered himself and stepped away from the sink, shrugging his shoulders as if trying to chase away the trembles that tormented his body.

Steeling himself, he stood up straight and looked Harry dead in the eye, as if he had just made a daunting decision.

"I told you, Potter. I don't want  _anything_  to do with  _any_  of it. Not anymore."

A mad gamble rolled around in Harry's mind at the surety that had just possessed the boy in front of him and he lowered his wand completely.

"Okay."

 

* * *

 

I took a few moments for those words to sink into the atmosphere, striking a chord in both of them.

"Okay?" Malfoy spat, his face souring in confusion and annoyance. "What do you mean,  _okay_? You cannot possibly just turn around and say that to me."

Harry shot him a look. How typical of the spoilt git to turn away the moment an olive branch was dangled in front of him.

"What do you want me to say, Malfoy?"

The blonde spluttered, throwing his arms up in exasperation. "You cannot possibly be that forgiving, Potter! Honestly, how you've survived this long is a mystery."

Frustration mounted in the Slytherin, unwilling to put up with Harry's accepting attitude, even despite the highly unusual situation.

Harry's eyes were sharp, however and he pinned the other with a stare. "I am not forgiving anything, Malfoy. Don't misunderstand me. Your dad, in particular, has a lot to answer for and I'm not just going to gloss over any of it. But right now, we're both in a stupidly awful situation and I'm willing to put things aside until this is all over. If we even make it out of this insanity, that is."

His words silenced Malfoy for a few moments and he watch the blonde process them carefully, the seconds ticking past until a jerky nod of his white hair signalled some sort of agreement.

"Okay," Malfoy breathed, purposefully choosing the vague wording Harry himself had opted for moments ago.

"So, what now?" the taller boy's voice had suddenly lowered, the frightened tone from earlier returning as the weight of their decision has just reformed around his shoulders.

Harry dragged a hand over his face and moved over to one of the walls, leaning against it tiredly.

"I don't know. I have to rescue my relatives though. Even if I do as Vol-"

Malfoy flinched again.

"…as  _he_ says, we both know he'll just kill them anyway."

"I still can't believe you would be willing to trade your life for those muggles," was the quiet mutter from across the room. Harry ignored it, almost afraid of dissecting that further, unsure why he himself had such a need to save them. He had no love for them, but they were still his only family. Merlin…

Malfoy's movement to lean against the far wall drew him out of these frightening thoughts and he watched with wonder as the other slid down and settled into a sitting position on the filthy floor, back to the hard wall. The Draco Malfoy he knew would never deign to sit on a bathroom floor. This simple action signalled the overwhelming changes that were happening that evening and Harry swallowed hard in his throat, anxious and unsettled. He could also feel the clock ticking, scrunching his eyes closed at the thought of what the Dursley's were going through at that very moment.

"Isn't this the part where you go running to Dumbledore?" Malfoy's serious tone held no mocking and it made Harry open his eyes and focus on the other boy.

"I… No, I can't. He already knows what happened." Despite Harry's belief that Malfoy's confession tonight was genuine, he refused to give the boy any information on Dumbledore or the Order. The risk wasn't worth it. He was fine with chancing his own skin by entering a momentary truce with the notorious Death Eater's son but he wouldn't allow anyone else to be involved, or give away anything that could be used against them later.

"And he's doing nothing?" Malfoy asked, eyebrows raised.

Harry glared at the insult to the headmaster, but he simply shrugged, keeping silent on the matter.

"Won't they be looking for an update from you?" Harry asked, diverting the subject line.

Malfoy's face dropped slightly and he gave a tight nod, like Harry, refusing to say anything further.

"Are your parents there? With him?"

Another nod.

"Would they leave if you asked them to?"

Malfoy looked completely taken aback by the question and he shivered. "I don't know. Maybe mother would…"

Harry immediately understood that Malfoy didn't know if his parents would abandon their cause for his sake. The thought made him oddly sad. But he knew he couldn't focus too much on the Malfoys.

"Look, tell him you gave me your message. Say nothing about any of this. I know you hate him but go talk to Dumbledore and see if he can help you. If you truly want out of the Death Eater circle, Malfoy, he will."

Malfoy's mouth was opening and closing like a fish, gaping at Harry has if he was a complete lunatic, not now raising any protests to the idea itself.

"Where are my relatives being held?"

Harry's straight tone didn't display the internal dread he could feel as he asked this question.

Malfoy swallowed and as soon as Harry saw the fear alight in his eyes, he knew. "Malfoy Manor," the blonde said quietly.

"Right, of course," Harry muttered. "Is there a way in there undetected?"

Malfoy looked as if he had just been slapped, perhaps realising his own betrayal of everything his family stood for.

"Potter, I'm not- I can't… If you go in there and just up and free your precious muggles, who do you think he's going to assume is the traitor who let their location slip?!" Malfoy's voice was slightly hysterical now, and he stood, panic starting to set in at the turnaround he had made this evening.

"I can't just let them die!" Harry bit out, frustration and pressure pumping through him.

Malfoy approached and Harry got to his feet, raising his wand. But Malfoy didn't reach for his own, he simply snatched the front of Harry's robes and pushed him into the wall. "And I won't let my parents die for them. You know he'll kill us all at even the suggestion that I helped you."

Harry pushed back, making the shaky blonde stumble slightly. He willed himself to calm down, understanding where Malfoy was coming from under all his own emotions.

"Look, I get it, alright? They're your parents."

Harry willed himself to brush aside all thought of who Lucius Malfoy was for a moment, trying to think of him first and foremost as Malfoy's father.

"Then don't ask me to choose. I said I wanted nothing to do with any of it. That includes your side, Potter. I want out completely. I'm not signing up for your cause either!"

Both boys were breathing heavily, eyeing each other with renewed distrust. Even with a truce, there would always be boundary lines they couldn't remove. Though Harry wondered why Malfoy had even told him that the Dursleys were at his home. He didn't voice this, fearful of making Malfoy retreat any more that he just had.

"Go talk to Dumbledore. Or, go home. Tell them all you delivered the message. Bow down to him, kiss his robes, do whatever it is you do to appease him. And then convince your parents to get out of there. Do it tonight, Malfoy. I'm not going to just sit here and let the Dursleys die because of me, one way or the other."

Malfoy was staring at Harry openly, his grey eyes scared. He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly closed it, as if too fearful if his own questions. Though he knew himself he was one, knowing the full details of Harry's plan would undoubtedly make him an open traitor, and he would have no other avenue to take be that the case. But if he was unaware of the details, he could make it out alive, either way. With a slight jolt, Malfoy realised that the Gryffindor was giving him the option.

"Go, Malfoy. You had better do whatever it is you're going to do now. I won't wait."

And with a moment's hesitation, Malfoy turned, grabbed his wand and the moisture-soaked note and fled, leaving Harry standing there with his heart hammering in his chest, unsure himself of what he had just done.

 

* * *

 

Panic set in the moment the Slytherin bolted and he knew he had to act quickly. He understood that if he went to Dumbledore, the man wouldn't allow Harry to be involved in any plan of action. Considering his relatives were still imprisoned, whatever the headmaster was doing wasn't working. And knowing Voldemort's level of impatience, the clock had started ticking the second Malfoy had received that note. He had to act fast.

Grabbing his invisibility cloak, he threw it around himself and stepped out into the corridors.

He needed a way into Malfoy Manor. Undetected. He cursed the Malfoys for a moment, knowing that their ancestral home was likely to be guarded in all sorts of ways, particularly if the rumours about Lucius' dark artefacts held any truth, which after seeing him in Borgin and Burke's all those years ago, Harry was sure were true. He momentarily marvelled at how long ago that had been, back in his second year, just after he had been paid a visit by Dobby…

Harry's mind grinded to a halt and excitement sped up in his veins. Dobby.

Dobby must have been able to get in and out of the manor undetected if he was able to come see Harry without his master knowing. Could it really be so simple?

Swallowing hard, Harry turned in the opposite direction and flew toward the kitchens, uncaring of how loud his footsteps sounded in the din.

 

* * *

 

The hustle and bustle of the kitchens was as welcome as ever, and even in such straining circumstances, the delicious cooking smells grounded Harry for a moment, before he approached the nearest elf, who looked quite startled to see him and immediately began offering various dishes and delicacies, with several of his comrades joining in.

"Um, please. Maybe later, I'm just looking for Dobby. Could you tell me where he is?"

Several faces turned to immediate disapproval. One elf even shook his head,

"He is not here, Mr Harry Potter, sir. Dobby is away."

"Away?" Harry asked weakly, disappointment filling him.

"Dobby is taking his holidays. It isn't right sir, for a house elf to be travelling when there is-"

"Do you know where he's gone?"

The elves shook their heads in unison.

"We does not discuss it with Dobby."

Whatever the elf squeaked out next was lost on Harry as he closed his eyes, his plan falling apart in his mind's eye. If Dobby was travelling, surely there was no way to reach him. And time was really bearing down on him. Opening his green orbs, he looked around at the disapproving faces, knowing that none of the other well-meaning Hogwarts elves would take time out of their duties to help him. Biting his lip, he mourned Dobby's wild excitement and adventurous outlook.

But then it occurred to him. There might not be another elf who would help him willingly, but there was certainly one who could, even if he despised him for it.

As much as Harry had not wanted Kreacher, and he was sure the feeling was mutual, particularly after his betrayal last year, right now he seemed like a ray of (unpleasant) light. Would Kreacher be able to apparate within the Malfoy grounds though? Harry wasn't sure of the limitations of elf magic. Perhaps Dobby could only do so back then because he had belonged to the family.

Begging his leave, Harry turned and climbed back through the entrance, ignoring the multiple suggestions from a group of elves that he take some treacle tart to go.

Dodging into an empty classroom one floor up, Harry took a breath and called out to the reluctant house elf. "Er, Kreacher?"

It took a moment, but there was a crack and the elf was bowing before him, before turning his eyes upward and eyeing Harry with undisguised distaste.

"Master has called?"

The tone was almost mocking, his croak high and laced with venom, but Harry ignored it.

"Kreacher, I need to ask you something. But before I do, you are forbidden from telling anyone about this conversation, or anything else that is going to happen tonight. Do you understand?"

Harry refused to be even a little careless after last year. Though Dumbledore's words regarding Sirius' mistreatment of Kreacher rang true, Harry's grief couldn't allow himself to forgive the elf in front of him for his dealings with Bellatrix.

Kreacher grumbled a response, muttering something about blood traitors under his breath, which Harry endeavoured to ignore.

"Can you apparate in and out of Malfoy Manor?"

He could see that the question took the elf by surprise, before mistrust began to full his eyes.

"Yes," he hissed out. "Kreacher had been to the noble Malfoy's home many times in the days his beloved mistress was alive. My poor mistress…"

Harry's heart skipped a beat and excitement began to fill him. This was it. This was his chance.

"Then I need you to do something, Kreacher. And it's an order."

He got a hateful look in return.

"I need you to apparate me, in complete secrecy, into Malfoy Manor. Undetected. We need to find two people there without anyone finding out, and then bring them back here, safely. Can you do that?"

A reluctant 'yes' was tinged with a curiosity that Harry didn't like.

"Look, Kreacher. I know we don't get along, but just do this for me and I won't bother you again."

Now the small creature looked up at Harry, suspicion in his eyes. But something about the idea seemed to appeal to him and he gave another mocking bow. "As master wishes."

Unease settled over Harry then, watching the house elf. He didn't trust Kreacher to do this on his own.

"Does Malfoy Manor have a dungeon or cellar, Kreacher? That you know of."

"Yes, the noble Malfoys have many secret passages and rooms. Kreacher has seen them, long ago."

Chances are, with any luck, that's where Vernon and Petunia would be. Gripping his wand tight and draping his invisibility cloak around him once more, Harry nodded at Kreacher. "Let's go. And remember. Total secrecy."

The elf just gave him a look, reaching up to grab Harry's cloak for side-along apparition. Harry's eyes were on the classroom door, sparing a thought for Ron and Hermione, afraid and relived that they wouldn't be joining him this time. He just hoped he'd be back to them shortly and in one piece.

 

* * *

 

When Harry's feet met ground again, it was dark, the stone passageway barely lit by a far-off torch. Holding his breath, he desperately listened for any movement.

Nothing. It was silent.

Letting out a relieved sigh, he looked down at Kreacher, who had let go of him as soon as possible.

"Right. Stay out of sight but see if you can locate two prisoners. A man and a woman. The man is large, with a moustache. And the woman is really skinny, blonde hair. Can you do that? Come back as soon as you find something. I'll search nearby."

A terse nod and Kreacher was away, leaving Harry alone and a little more than terrified. Somewhere in the expanse of this house, Voldemort was waiting, impatiently. One slip up and Harry will have delivered himself on a silver platter.

Keeping the cloak firmly around him, he moved slowly, desperately afraid of making any sound. Maybe for once he could get in and out of a situation without any dramatics.

The corridor eventually let out into a larger space, with two heavy doors fitted into the walls. Cautiously opening one, Harry found a generously sized cellar room stacked full of dusty, aging wine bottles. Shaking his head, he closed it and tried the other, finding himself in another, broader passageway. This one was more well-lit, but mercifully empty. He supposed with a house this large and so well protected, the chances of people scurrying through the underbelly of its rooms were slim. But surely somewhere down here was a dungeon or holding room of some sort. That is, unless Voldemort had his relatives upstairs, with him. Maybe under the Cruciatus curse, as Harry explored unimportant cellar space. The thought turned his stomach, but he moved forward, hoping, praying that wasn't the case.

Five minutes went by and Harry met no one, nor saw anything of importance. He was just about to try another door, his hand warily on the iron handle, when Kreacher cracked into existence beside him, scaring him half to death.

"Kreacher!"

"The fat man and skinny woman. Kreacher has seen them."

"You did? Where?! Can you get them out?"

Though the elf looked as if this was a major inconvenience, he agreed that he could.

"Are they being guarded?"

Harry's heart sank at the nod. "Kreacher has seen two robed men outside the room, but none inside."

"Can they see inside or is there a door?"

"A large door."

Harry's mind raced. Right, that meant that if they were quick and silent, Kreacher could be in and out with Vernon and Petunia before the Death Eaters had a chance to notice, let alone react. They might just make it.

Whispering the plan to the elf in super hushed tones, Harry grabbed a hold of the his ragged clothing. "I need to come with you. These two people… they've never seen a house elf before, they might freak and alert the entire house."

Malicious whispering followed and Harry knew that Kreacher had guessed that those they were rescuing were more than a little non-magical.

"I don't want to hear any more about what your mistress would have said, Kreacher. We need to move. Now. Before anything changes."

Though it wasn't a direct order, Harry blinked as the scenery changed and he found himself in a holding cell, invisibly facing his bedraggled and bloodied aunt and uncle as they both gaped in horror at Kreacher. Throwing off his cloak, Harry whispered a silencing spell just before Petunia let out a scream. Harry's sudden appearance had her eyes bulging and Harry was horrified to see how bruised her face was.

Vernon's default rage was nowhere to be seen. They both looked too frightened and even in his silenced state, he didn't try to utter a word.

"I'm getting you out of here," Harry whispered. "Understand? We have to stay quiet. Kreacher here will take you back to Hogwarts, you just need to hold onto him."

It was testament to what the two muggles must have gone through that they immediately followed Harry's orders, their faces passive, sitting up from their position together against the stone wall.

Harry motioned to Kreacher and the elf approached them, disgust written into his expression. Petunia didn't even flinch when the elf grabbed a fistful of the side of her cardigan, which made Harry's stomach drop in thought of how traumatised the woman must be to ignore her deep-rooted OCD and distrust of magical anything.

Casting one last fearful look at the closed door, Harry approached the trio, reaching out to clutch onto Kreacher. Just before he could take hold of the elf's bony shoulder, his forehead exploded with excruciating pain and he couldn't help the yell of raw agony that burst from his mouth.

He felt himself falling to his knees, grabbing at his head. Just through the haze, he experienced a delirious bolt of triumph and he knew that Voldemort was onto him.

The door burst open and he desperately threw himself toward Kreacher, who was actually looking at him in something akin to alarm. But he found himself thrown backward, slamming into the far stone wall with a sickening crack. Dizziness filled his head, but he could make out the pale faces of the Dursleys gawping at him in horror and he shouted, ordered, Kreacher to leave with them.

In a split second, they were gone, and Harry was alone, the room swimming in front of him. He could feel blood pooling in his mouth where he had bit his tongue, the metallic taste vile. Trying to steady himself, he reached out, hand scrabbling for his fallen wand. A jolt of relief flew threw him when his fingers touched the handle, but it was short lived, as a shot of red light hit him straight in the chest, and he fell into darkness.

 

* * *

 

The first thing he noted as he came to was the heat, the rising temperature jolting him back to reality and flooding him with memories of what had transpired. His horrified gasp was muffled by the heavy cloth that filled his mouth and a quick pull at his wrists informed him that they were bound behind him, fixed to the carved wood of the handsome chair he was sitting in.

"I had expected you to play by the rules, Harry. I don't know whether to be disappointed or impressed."

Harry started at the soft, snake-like tone, the jerky movement making his head throb, but his frightened eyes immediately found the face of Lord Voldemort, fear hammering in his heart as green met those scarlet eyes. Eyes he had hoped to avoid this night.

Voldemort was standing in front of an obscenely large fireplace, the roaring flames filling the intimate drawing room with flickering light. They were alone.

"But it's of no real consequence. They served their purpose in bringing you to me. Killing muggles is of little matter."

Harry was immediately reminded of the Tom Riddle he had met in the Chamber of Secrets and he shivered.

Voldemort glided across the room, his pale hand reaching out and gently taking a hold of the younger man's jaw. Harry's forehead was on fire, despite the cold, reptilian feel of the man's skin. He tilted Harry's head all the way up, forcing him to look directly at him.

"You are far more important. And I mean to make an example of you, Harry. Never again will people question your power, or mine. That discussion ends tonight."

A cruel smile tugged at the corner of the dark wizard's thin lips as he noted the terror in Harry's eyes. However, it fell when he stepped away, freeing Harry from his chilling grip.

"I was most intrigued when my followers told me of the Daily Prophet and their findings about you." His tone was casual and light, almost amused. "Whoever would have known that so important a boy would be left to such a disappointing family? We really aren't so different, are we Harry?"

Harry shook his head slightly, refusing to acknowledge the poisonous words with raw silence.

Voldemort laughed, the sound more threatening than a hiss. "We are both half-bloods, with great lineage on one side and pitiful relations on the other. Left to the inept care of muggles at a young age and both risen to fame unequalled in the wizarding world – though your fame is a direct consequence of my own, of course."

Silence reigned for several moments as Voldemort turned away and stood facing the fire, his silhouette outlined in flames. The quiet only instilled a rising dread in Harry and he unconsciously tugged at his bonds, panic creeping into his bones.

"The two Death Eaters that guarded your aunt and uncle are dead now."

The words brought Harry to a halt and he ceased his struggle, looking up at Voldemort with wide eyes. Pain resurfaced in his head, tinged with an anger that was not his own.

"It is lucky that their Lord is observant, or you might have escaped me completely, Harry. What a shame that would be. However, my mercy can only extend so far. I do not forgive carelessness. Or betrayal."

The tension in the room was building and Harry dreaded where this line of conversation was leading.

"It seems that none of my loyal followers have seen Draco, Narcissa or Lucius Malfoy since I passed my orders to young Draco earlier today. Now, why would that be, Harry?"

Harry swallowed thickly, his mouth dry, teeth clenching around the thick fabric.

"Have they deserted their master and cause? Or is it simply a misunderstanding?" The gleam in Voldemort's eyes as he turned left no doubt as to which the monster believed it to be.

He crossed the room once more and looped a bony finger around the gag suffocating Harry's mouth, pulling it down and freeing his lips.

"Malfoy is too much of a coward to do that," Harry said, his words hoarse but rather convincing. However, his attempt only earned a mocking smile. He desperately tried to avoid the red eyes, frightened of how easily they would see into his mind.

"Is he? I understand both yourself and young Draco have never seen eye to eye."

Harry said nothing.

"Come now, Harry. Speak to me. The longer you talk, the longer you live."

Those words had Harry's full attention, once again eerily echoing the Tom Riddle of the diary. However, he recognised the truth in them and decided it was worth buying himself more time. Perhaps Kreacher would return? That felt like a rather sad hope.

"You- you've said something like that to me before."

Now the snake-like face took on a twisted curiosity and he regarded Harry with interest. "Have I?"

"When To- when the younger version of yourself came out of the diary in my second year. He said that to me." Harry desperately tried to swallow his nerves as he talked.

Voldemort's smile was now terrifying. He started to circle Harry slowly. "Yes, I would imagine he was quite curious about you. Curiosity can be a distraction."

A log in the fire fell and a rush of sparks flew up from the flames, drawing Harry's eye. In this moment, he missed the subtle movement of Voldemort's wand, screaming in agony before he even realised what had happened. Thrashing in the chair, Harry felt as if thousands of knives were piercing his body, his mind lost in the pain, uncomprehending until finally, what seemed like an eternity later, he was released from the torture curse, left hanging in his bonds, weak and breath laboured.

"You are no longer a curiosity to me, Potter." The softness of tone was gone, as was the use of his given name and mocking smile. Voldemort's expression was set, his eyes bold and alive with malice.

Harry found himself screaming in pain again moments later, held under until the other wizard saw fit to release him.

"I have no doubt of the reason Draco fled. I marvel at the lack of strength wizards possess. He is a fool. His parents are fools. They will understand what it means to betray me soon enough, but right now, you need to understand what it means to oppose me. I have been lenient in the past with you. Too many mistakes, I can admit it. But no more."

Harry's exhausted frame had his head hanging down, chin resting against his chest, eyes scrunched tight.

"I do hope it was worth it, Harry? Freeing those muggles you deem worthy of your attention. Your choices have led you here, to me. This is your doing, remember that."

"No," Harry murmured, voice weak.

Voldemort continued, as if Harry hadn't spoken at all, and green eyes widened with unbridled fear as a delicate, spider-like hand pointed its wand directly at him, carefully, as if savouring the moment.

"Your choices have led you to death, Harry. There will be no more diversions, I am quite through with you. At least you can take pride in the fact that it was Lord Voldemort who brought you to your knees."

The words were alarmingly final and Harry knew what was about to happen just before the words were uttered. Shutting his eyes, he turned his head slightly, fear making his body betray him and cringe away from the death that awaited him. He thought of his friends, Sirius, Remus, hell, even the Dursleys. Would his relatives even mourn him? Perhaps, Dudley might?

As if it were from very far away, he heard the first word of the curse and felt the beginnings of a spell form less than a metre from him, a different heat than the one from the fire. Almost willing it to go faster, he took what he thought would be his last breath, the air trapped in his lungs for eternity, waiting in gut-wrenching dread for his end.


	5. Chapter 5

A blood-curdling scream rang through Harry's ears and for a moment he thought it was he himself making the agonising sound as death heralded in around him. But the green light he could feel burning the air, even from behind closed lids, died so quickly that his eyes shot open in surprise and momentary astonishment; the spell snapping out of existence with an incomplete incantation. As soon as he saw Voldemort's focus had left him, he realised the wailing sound was not his own, but coming from behind the closed door across the room.

With a potent mix of adrenaline and fear coursing through him, Harry's body involuntarily jumped in his bonds as something crashed against the exterior of the solid wood, succeeded by several further bangs, all to the tune of the dreadful screeching.

A hiss of frustration left Voldemort's thin lips and Harry dragged his eyes back to his would-be murderer, watching the pitiless orbs shift away from him, a furiously impatient hand swiping through the air to throw open the offending portal and reveal just who was fool enough to disturb the Dark Lord in his triumph.

The hideous sound filled the room as a disturbed and distraught Wormtail fell heavily through the open doorway, his entire body convulsing and fighting against what seemed to be his own silver hand, which was clawing at the man's neck with malevolent intent.

The sight was so bizarre that Harry almost missed the flash of fury and mild curiosity that flickered across Voldemort's pale features in succession. However, he noted the calculating expression descending on the pale visage, a sight that made him internally recoil.

"What is the meaning of this, Wormtail?" Voldemort asked after a moment, tone soft and dangerous, almost conversational, as if the man he was addressing wasn't beside himself with distress.

"M-my Lord, please…" was the strangled response, Wormtail's human hand, and all of his strength, clearly focused on keeping its silver counterpart at bay. There was blood lining his collarbone where vicious scratches and messy, bruising finger marks marred the skin.

Harry stared, dumbstruck, his mind too overwhelmed to truly take in everything he was seeing.

"You have betrayed me."

Voldemort's words were almost a whisper, with no regret tangible in them, only cool nonchalance and a hint of disgust.

Wormtail's face was wild with fright now and he shook his head repeatedly, focus lost for just a moment; enough time for his master's gift to wrap itself around his windpipe, making his eyes bulge in a morbidly cartoon-like fashion.

"Magic can be a most frightening thing, indeed. Don't you agree, Harry?"

Voldemort's sudden shift of address made Harry's blood turn to ice, reminding him of his own imminent death, meeting those red eyes that were now ignoring the torment of his servant in favour of his true victim.

"But perhaps you don't fully comprehend the dilemma my servant has found himself in?"

Harry couldn't find words. He felt himself stare uselessly, expression betraying him.

"Lord Voldemort always knows, even the slightest hint of disloyalty…" the wizard paused for a moment, looking down at the wand held in his spider-like grip. "Poor Wormtail's mind must have betrayed him, if only for a moment. Fortunately, my magic doesn't suffer traitorous intent."

The dangerous eyes shifted to the silver hand that was now squeezing the life out of the wretched man writhing on the floor.

As if from another lifetime, Dumbledore's words on Voldemort's unwillingness to have a servant indebted to Harry echoed back to the boy-who-lived and then he understood, at least in part. With wide eyes he watched the result of a reluctant, unfulfilled life debt play out. Struggling, Harry's body suddenly wanted to act, unable to watch the pitiful scene in front of him with absolute indifference.

Voldemort actually turned away from the scene, as if it wasn't worthy of his attention, his gaze wholly on Harry once more.

"It seems poignant how many have come between us, Harry. And how they pay the price for their interference."

The words were underscored with the final gurgles from Wormtail's throat, signalling his end. The fight left Harry's body as the hopelessness of the scene filled him once more, looking away from the dying man directly in his eyeline. A vicious thought echoed in the back of his mind, some dark part of him convinced that Peter Pettigrew deserved it, but he couldn't bring himself to feel truly satisfied, the entire scenario too sick and twisted for him to stomach.

A moment passed with agonising length, and then, even with Harry's silence, it seemed Voldemort himself had no further words to offer. Wormtail had gone silent and limp, his face forever frozen in terror, and the thin, bony hand of the Dark Lord raised its wand once more. Harry momentarily mourned the fact that he had to hold his nerve a second time this night, facing into his death with as much dignity as he could muster, now reluctantly willing it to be over. He knew his fear would betray him soon, but he refused to give Voldemort the satisfaction of seeing it.

However, he would have to hold out a little longer, as there was a pause in the air, the anticipated green light nowhere to be seen. Within seconds, his bonds seemed to fall away and Harry's eyes widened upon seeing Voldemort whirl around, robes flying; a demonstration of the frustration within, anticipating the sudden intruder that took the astonishing form of Dobby. His tiny body was standing in the open doorway, eyes wide, his skinny arm still raised from magically freeing Harry.

 

* * *

 

An unholy scream of fury and disbelief left Voldemort, his face twisted in outrage at the insult of having a mere house elf challenge him, and his wand slashed through the air toward him with wicked speed, but Dobby disappeared on the spot.

Harry's own bewilderment suddenly fled, reality crashing down on him, his wrists relishing their freedom, telling him to go; to run. Springing from the chair, ignoring his jelly-like limbs, Harry threw himself toward the door, almost stumbling over Wormtail's body.

"Don't you flee from me, Harry Potter!" came the high, cold voice and an invisible force grabbed at Harry's ankles, causing him to trip and slam to the ground, his elbow cracking on the stone. However, as Voldemort advanced, Dobby was suddenly by his side, his sweet face determined, grabbing a hold of Harry's arm immediately. "Harry Potter must hold onto Dobby!"

No sooner were the words out of the kind elf's mouth did his little body spasm violently, as if struck by a jolt of mangled electricity, crumpling in a small heap on the cold ground.

"Dobby!" Harry shouted, glancing back at Voldemort with panic, seeing the monster's wand poised from the spell he had just cast, face alive with the will to strike once more. Harry grabbed at the small elf, relief flooding him at the subtle rise and fall of Dobby's chest, signalling the life that still existed within.

The laughter that filled the room then was neither joyous nor amused but rang hard and contemptuous.

"My, my, such lowly creatures coming to your defence. It's almost amusing, Harry, how life has favoured you so. Seconds from death and my treacherous servant lends you another few minutes of life by giving his own. And now, this elf will die on your behalf, only to buy you more, inconsequential, time. Do you detect a pattern?"

Harry moved in front of Dobby's form, facing Voldemort, shielding him, swallowing hard against his nerves and shaking legs. He tried to push the words away before they took root in his brain, aware that somewhere in the far corners of his mind he was thinking the same thing. He couldn't let Dobby join the list of those who had simply bought him more time. He wouldn't.

"As I said, this will not be like our past encounters. I cannot abide your existence any longer and shall enjoy ending your life. However, it will be just you and I. Further interference will not be tolerated, as I have anticipated this moment for too long and it is mine alone to enjoy. Stand aside and I will end this miserable creature before I grant you your death."

" _Stand aside, you silly girl..."_

Indignation on Dobby's behalf bubbled inside of Harry's stomach, fuelled by the echo and similarity of the words Voldemort had dictated to his mother moments before her death and he found a little strength that, lifting his chin and chasing away his own fears for just a moment. It wasn't so bad, really. At least he would follow in his mum and dad's footsteps and die proudly, protecting someone innocent, someone he cared about, instead of bound to a chair like a helpless child.

But Dobby surely would not survive long beyond himself and that understanding saddened him.

As he stared down the snake-like face that once was Tom Riddle, Harry knew this was it. There wouldn't be more borrowed time. A twitch at the corner of Voldemort's thin lips could have been the beginnings of a twisted smile, but somehow he knew that it was an involuntary move of displeasure and irritation at Harry's defiance.

"Very well," the monster hissed. "If you insist on protecting vermin, let that be your legacy, Harry Potter."

The wand that was so like his own lifted into the air and Harry watched it, heart hammering. Unconsciously, he stepped backward, arm reaching blindly for Dobby, pushing the limp little body well behind his own. He could at least do this. Buy the troublesome and dear elf another few minutes, perhaps enough time for the creature to make his escape – though not with Harry it would seem.

With an almost aloof numbness, he watched thin lips move, the spell cast, and took a quick intake of breath as the green light formed. The spell finally overtook him, slamming into his body with a ferocity that lasted no more than a millisecond, burning out just as quickly as a doused candle, and he dropped, dead before hitting the ground.

 

* * *

 

Something had changed when the world came back.

He felt oddly light. That was the first thing that came to mind as Harry's limbs stirred and his thoughts seemed to wake from extended sleep. However, far too quickly, it was as if his body suddenly caught up on itself and stifling, burning air filled his lungs, forcing him to fly up into a half-seated position, gasping for breath, choking on something poisonous and feeling it leave him with each desperate gulp he took, his limbs shaking as his brain took control of them slowly, one muscle at a time.

Then someone screamed. Or shouted. There was a crash. Broken glass? He couldn't be sure. Dragging his eyes open for the first time, the world dawned dark and blurry. His green orbs were wide, ten million things rushing back to him all at once, the dim candlelight that should have been gentle now burning his sight with the ferocity of a vicious spell he couldn't recall just then.

His panicked self took in a half-lit bedroom, hard and handsome old-world furnishings surrounding him on all sides; familiar and not so, even without his glasses. He digested this for a moment, his subconscious accepting this current unknown as a safe space, before turning on his side and violently dry-heaving, his body attempting to reset itself, but his stomach empty, so he simply choked out nothing, the sensations wracking his body with shoots of pain.

"Harry?! Harry!"

Someone was beside him now, but nausea was building in his stomach and he scrunched his eyes tight, not quite hearing the alarmed words that were dancing in the air around him.

There were warm hands on his shoulders, soothing almost, but then they grew desperate, turning his body around so he was forced to look up into the incomprehensibly alarmed eyes of Albus Dumbledore. Harry took in the half-moon spectacles with wide, foggy eyes, still not quite grasping the situation. He could make out the headmaster's mouth moving, but he wasn't following the words quite right. He heard his own name again and then he heard another's.

"Severus, please!"

It would only be much later that Harry could look back on this moment and reflect on what it meant to see Severus Snape look truly stunned. He was standing so close that even with his dismal eyesight, Harry noted the wide dark eyes, gaunt face and the small expression of mild horror playing around the thin lips. It was also curious that Snape didn't seem to be able to allow himself to move. He simply stood there, so near, but completely still. Dumbledore called his name at least twice more before the man almost flinched back to himself, straightening and standing tall, wiping all expression from his face.

"P'fessor," Harry managed to get past his scratchy throat, shaking his head slowly at the headmaster. "I don't…"

He meant to tell the concerned face that he didn't understand, his thoughts jumbled and memory momentarily deserting him.

Dumbledore's face schooled itself, smoothing out the concerned lines into a small smile that Harry found comforting – despite the alert tension still visible in the blue eyes.

"It's alright, Harry. You're safe."

Harry's body took the words to heart without the permission of his mind and he calmed, nodding and dropping back to his pillow, breathing more slowly, his chest rising and falling evenly after a minute. Ignoring the whispered diagnostics taking place above him, he felt his mind lulled to sleep by his body's own steady rhythm, unaware of the uproar – both joyous and disbelieving – his awakening had just triggered.

 

* * *

 

Much later, it would become apparent that Harry had been laid in rest in an uppermost bedroom of Grimmauld Place, the room lit by soft candles in a strange sort of vigil that he was removed from as soon as life overtook his body once more. This was something that still caused shivers to run down his spine, forever considering that room to be his reluctant funeral parlour.

Though he had been hidden away from the prying, unwanted eyes that existed at Hogwarts, members of the Order had gathered in the kitchen below in response to the dreadful news that had been delivered that night. Each of them now existed in an alternating state of uproar and shocked quiet, utterly bewildered that Madam Pomphrey was now treating a very much alive Harry. Despite the clearly deceased boy that a weeping, injured Dobby had managed to get back to Dumbledore only hours before.

As he sat up in a freshly-laundered bed the following morning, away from the disturbing funeral scene he had awoken in, Harry's own disbelief at the story Remus was shakily telling him didn't quite match the look he could see in the eyes of a kind Mrs Weasley, who hovered in the back, itching to fuss over him with renewed vigour. Hermione and Ron were by his bedside, eyes wide but smiling with a raw happiness that was slowly chasing away their grief.

It occurred to Harry that the odd sense of indifference he felt in that moment to what had befallen him last night wasn't quite right.

He had died.

And Remus' uneven words had just confirmed what he already knew.

He remembered the light hitting him, but nothing after that. How was that possible? The very thought made him shiver slightly, forcing Mrs Weasley to hurry forward and tuck him in more tightly, to the point the cosy duvet cover was pinning him down. But he found he didn't mind. Loathe as he was to admit it, he needed the comfort right now.

However, his friends, the Weasley matriarch and a reluctant Remus finally left the room when Dumbledore asked to speak to Harry in private. Hesitant, Harry's worry only grew when Dumbledore's entry was followed by Professor Snape, the man's eyes on him from the second he crossed the threshold, refusing to let up, even when Harry looked away. Flashes of those dark eyes looking wide and alarmed jumped to the forefront of his mind, but he shook them off.

There was the longest pause, or at least it felt that way to Harry, as the headmaster smiled kindly at him, taking a seat in Ron's empty chair. Snape remained standing. And staring.

"Harry, I know I spoke with you earlier, however – despite Madame Pomphrey's reservations – I think we need to discuss last night in full, as there are far-reaching consequences that you  _both_  need to be aware of."

Snape started at the word 'both', finally removing his dark eyes from Harry's pale face and over to the headmaster.

Harry sat up in bed slightly at this, examining the elderly wizard's face carefully.

Dumbledore had been the first person he saw when he awoke, that Harry remembered. And they had spoken when he was more lucid, but only to ascertain Harry's health. Madame Pomphrey and the headmaster together had examined him several times, checking for what, Harry wasn't sure. Dumbledore even had tears in his eyes at one point, as he ran several spells over Harry's form – the incantations lost on the young Gryffindor, who understood that he could never truly perceive what those words achieved.

But now they were both relatively calm, and Harry felt that there was a story here. One he needed to hear. And he had a thousand questions of his own.

"Sir, how did I – even if I was, you know…" Harry paused, wincing at the word he couldn't get out. He settled for an easier question. "How did I get back here?"

Dumbledore's face softened. "Ah, you have dear Dobby to thank for that. And a handful of others who played their part. It just so happened that Dobby returned to the castle last night, a strange act of fate in its own way. When he learned from the other elves that you had been searching from him and then failed to find you, he immediately sought out Mr Weasley and Miss Granger. Naturally, when they then couldn't locate you, your friends came straight to me. I must admit we were at a bit of a loss until Kreacher, rather reluctantly, appeared in my office with your relatives. Though, he seemed unable to relay anything to us, struggling with any questions I addressed to him concerning you"

Harry gaped. "I told him not to. I only meant… But then, he wouldn't have been able to say anything at all?" The heaviness of his power over Kreacher then dawned on him, and he cursed himself for the wording of his orders to the elf.

He internally berated himself for his stupidity, however Dumbledore held out a kind hand. "Please, my boy. Considering what happened with Sirius, I understand. And while your actions were reckless, I appreciate that you only meant to protect the Dursleys by ordering Kreacher to maintain secrecy. Though it did offer a major obstacle to finding you, as the Dursleys themselves had no idea of where they had been held captive, describing only the rooms they were held in and transported between."

Harry nodded, dumbly. But he wasn't really comforted by the words, embarrassment brimming in him.

Dumbledore's continuance with the story brought Harry back into the moment.

"But then the most surprising thing happened. Young Draco happened upon my office. Mr Malfoy rather inartfully asked for protection for his family, which the Order – perhaps some reluctantly – granted. In return, he then hesitantly spilled his thoughts on your supposed intentions."

Harry blinked in surprise. Voldemort had told him the Malfoys had all but defected, but he hadn't expected Malfoy to do as he said and go straight to Dumbledore.

Thank Merlin he did.

"Once it was clear you had elected to go to Malfoy Manor by yourself," Dumbledore's tone took on a note of disapproval and he peered down at Harry over his half-moon spectacles. "We began to work on dismantling the wards. Narcissa and Lucius arrived at Hogwarts at the behest of their son and, with severe reservations, finally relented to his demands that they stay there. However, even with the family gone, Voldemort had added his own brand of magic to the property, no small matter, I assure you. Severus went ahead and tried to locate you, however it seems as though Tom did not wish to be disturbed and had disappeared with Wormtail into a part of the house closed to his remaining Death Eaters."

Snape made no sound during this part of the speech, but he had started to pace the floor, slowly.

"Luckily, as you yourself had surmised, elf magic is not always limited to the same restrictions as that of witches and wizards. And Dobby was more than intent upon going in to find you."

Harry stilled, knowing they were at the part where his knowledge of the story took over. He sighed, looking uneasily at Snape, who was ignoring his eye now completely.

There was a very long pause, the silence weighty.

"Tell us what happened, Harry."

Dumbledore's voice was tinged with a far-off sadness now and it made the Gryffindor uncomfortable. He sighed, sinking into his pillows, resigning himself to a tale he'd rather forget. But first, he had a question of own.

"Sir, why didn't you move to save the Dursleys sooner? Why was it only when I was in trouble that anyone did anything?" Harry did his best to keep the bite of anger he was feeling from infecting his words, but judging by Dumbledore's resigned face, the man had noted the tone all the same.

"It wasn't an intentional delay, Harry. Petunia and Vernon's location was unknown. And they only arrived at Malfoy Manor several hours before you found them. Before then, none of our allies could locate them. Alas, even Severus was not party to that detail, or when their move occurred. I suspect Tom wanted to guarantee you, and only you, came to him on Draco's instruction."

Harry sighed, his head beginning to hurt. He glanced at Snape, wondering why someone in his position was so out of the loop. Though, judging by Voldemort's fixation on privacy tonight, perhaps it wasn't so unexpected.

Rubbing his eyes, Harry looked back at the two men, resigned now to offer some information of his own.

"I take it the Dursleys told you how Kreacher got them out?"

A solemn nod followed this.

"Well, I didn't quite make it in time. I ordered him to leave with them and then I think I was hit by a stunner, because the next time I woke up Voldemort had me tied to a chair in some small parlour room, or something. We… talked, for quite a while."

Dumbledore looked at him intently.

Harry sighed again, looking away as he admitted the next part, strangely embarrassed for some reason.

"He, um, tortured me a few times."

Snape had stopped pacing. He wasn't looking at Harry, but he was clearly listening intently beneath the lengths of his dark hair. Dumbledore's mouth was a grim line and his eyes held a terrifying anger when the Gryffindor finally met them again, but he didn't interrupt.

"He basically said he wanted to kill me in his own time. He wanted to enjoy it." The words were bitter, but Harry forced them out.

"He was about to do it when Wormtail interrupted. He was in a panic, screaming, fighting off the silver hand Voldemort gave him."

Dumbledore's expression was full of understanding, but Snape's was now back on Harry, curious and distrusting.

"It killed him. Voldemort did nothing. He said he had betrayed him." Harry swallowed, hard. "He then told me that Wormtail had bought me more time, like others had before him. He was in the middle of casting the killing curse when Dobby showed up. He was furious at the interruption. Dobby freed me and I tried to get to him, but Voldemort hit him with something, knocking him out, and ordered me to move aside so he could kill him first. He wanted my death to be in private, just the two of us. But I didn't want Dobby to be killed like- like everyone else." Harry posture slumped slightly.

"So, he said fine, if I wanted to die protecting him, I would. He cast the spell and that was it."

 

* * *

 

A moment's beat passed in the room.

" _That was_   _it_?"

Snape's voice made Harry jump and he inwardly recoiled from the absolute fury on the man's face, the dark eyes now firmly fixed on him, ignoring the warning look from Dumbledore.

"You were  _dead_ , Potter. I myself witnessed it, confirmed it even – after Madame Pomphrey. And now you tell us the Dark Lord cast the murder curse on you for a second time, and you wake up mere hours later, as if such a curse from one of the most powerful wizards ever to walk the earth was no more than a simple little spell to be thwarted?!"

Snape was shouting now.

Harry couldn't recall the man ever shouting at him like this before. He was all coldness, cleverness and biting remarks. This unabashed outburst was something new, akin to the temper he had displayed when Sirius escaped the dementors.

Dumbledore was standing.

"Severus, please calm yourself!"

Whirling around in a dramatic fashion, the ex-potion's professor turned on the headmaster.

"Honestly, how can you listen to this, Albus?! The boy is completely disregarding-"

"I'm not disregarding anything!" Harry snapped, pulling the focus of the two men to him, his own temper flaring. How dare Snape accuse him of downplaying this.

"I can't explain what happened. I don't even remember anything after he cursed me. But what do you suggest I do, sir? Lose my mind over the fact that I was murdered and somehow managed to claw my way back to my miserable existence for no apparent reason?"

Through his heavy breathing, Harry realised the subtext of those words, and he stopped short, alarmed and ashamed. It almost sounded as if he was disappointed to be back. He hadn't meant it to come out like that.

Willing himself to calm, he tried to brush off the sinking feeling that was taking over his body.

"Harry," the headmaster said very gently. "I understand this must be traumatic, beyond what any of us can understand. But I might be able to shed some light on why you survived. And it was certainly not without a most important reason. It might help for you to hear the full story. In any case, it's time."

Snape's head turned toward Dumbledore so fast that Harry thought his neck might snap. An unpleasant tingling feeling was creeping up Harry's spine as Dumbledore sighed, weary and determined in one, taking a seat once more and gesturing for Snape to do the same – which he finally did with some reluctance, his face frustrated but evidently interested.

As the odd group settled in to hear the headmaster's story, he cautioned them with absolute secrecy, simultaneously unravelling and stitching Harry's life back together in a few long minutes of conversation that revolved around the terrifying truth of a human horcrux and the remaining others that lay hidden in the world beyond the borders of the little bedroom they currently inhabited.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry's strange state of mind continued for the next few days, broken by the joy of his friends at seeing him alive and relatively healthy after such a horrific shock. A highlight of the entire ordeal was Dobby's visit, who, now fully recovered from his own experience with Voldemort's magic, wept for a full hour with relief at Harry's very much alive state, apologising over and over for not saving him.

The boy-who-lived reassured him that he  _did_  save him, which only made the small elf cry harder.

What Harry didn't tell him was why he was able to bring Harry's 'body' back in the first place. Dobby had awoken, weak but alive, to find Voldemort unconscious and Harry seemingly dead. In his grief, he immediately aparated back to Hogwarts with the boy he had come to save, in an absolute mess of shock, never sparing a thought for why the Dark Lord was himself indisposed.

Dumbledore's guess, most likely a good one, was that when Voldemort unknowingly destroyed the soul piece inside Harry, he himself was affected for a few moments. This stood out in Harry's mind all through his conversation with Dobby, but he buried it, determined to enjoy the elf's newfound happiness.

Dobby's visit had brought Kreacher to mind once more, though strangely, Harry had only encountered the more unpleasant elf once since he had awoken, and it was when Harry was lying in bed late one night, trying to get to sleep. The elf had skulked in the half-open doorway, clearly thinking the boy was out for the count, standing there for some time, as if hesitant about something. Harry didn't alert him to the fact that he was awake, nor did he later seek him out to question him on it. That was a conversation for another time.

 

* * *

 

As Harry recovered, there was a lot of talk about what to do about his supposed death. The wizarding world was ignorant about the events, but did Voldemort believe the boy to be dead? Dumbledore reasoned that he did not, as he would have publicly broadcast it if this had been the case, as a moment of personal triumph.

The dark wizard was being cautious, which signalled doubt and inevitable danger.

"Imagine how frustrated he must be, not knowing," Hermione pointed out one evening, as she, Harry and Ron sat around the ground floor sitting room.

Ron actually snorted. "Imagine how upset he'll be when he finds out you're alive, Harry. I mean, he's basically dedicated all his time to immortality. And here you are, two killing curses later."

"Ron!" Hermione scolded, eyes anxiously darting between them, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

But Harry actually cracked a smile, his first moment of mirth since that night. And even though the thoughts of the snake-like monster made his skin prickle unpleasantly, he savoured the amusement at his expense. Although, he had to admit that it was a cheap victory over someone who had caused him so much anguish.

He had, with Dumbledore's permission – not that he wouldn't have done it anyway – spent the night before telling his best friends everything. Their faces had gone from awe to horror and back again, paling further when he finally admitted the reason for his survival.

Hermione was quicker to digest the scenario than Ron. She had asked if Voldemort would guess what had happened, once Harry's survival was confirmed. Truthfully, even the headmaster wasn't sure; Harry had asked this question himself.

"What happens now, though?" Hermione questioned. Even Ron's face dropped a little and he shrugged, looking to Harry for guidance.

"What do you reckon, mate?"

A sigh was the response.

"I'm not sure. Though, if we ever want to defeat him, we'll have to start with all the pieces of his soul."

Ron blanched slightly. "But, Dumbledore said they could be anything, right? How is anyone supposed to find them?"

Harry stood up and shook his head, stretching his legs slightly and casting an eye to the drizzle outside, just visible between the heavy curtains. He didn't have an answer.

"Look, I just wanted to say," Harry started, a touch awkward. "Thanks for being so, well, normal with me. I get that it must be a bit weird. Especially after what I told you last night. Even Snape got a bit strange when Dumbledore told him everything."

"Harry," Hermione said softly. "You're still the same person. Nothing that happens could ever change the three of us."

This earned her a grateful and well-pleased smile, which turned to a look of fake annoyance when Ron followed with some choice words of his own.

"Oh please, like we're surprised. Harry Potter, boy-who-lived-twice, defeater of basilisks and thwarter of dark wizards, bane of bat-like professors and redeemer of irksome little Malfoy gits. Just another thing to add to your list of legends."

Ron's ear-to-ear grin earned him a pillow to the face, but his best friend really did find comfort in his humour. It lightened the situation for himself and chased away some of the thoughts plaguing him.

He didn't want to tell his friends as much, but he had felt strange since that night. Something inside had shifted, but he couldn't tell if it was for the good. Surely having an invasive piece of soul destroyed was a positive thing, right? Why wasn't that clearer to him though? He was balanced between feeling hollow and happily light. Unwanted as it had been, there had been something attached to him for all that time, he had grown up with it. Having it gone was both a relief and a huge change, and while the effects felt subtle, he suspected they weren't.

Also, where did this leave him on the 'chosen one' detail? Was he still destined to fight Voldemort? Thinking about this as he moved to stand by the grimy window, Harry sighed softly. He suspected this expectation hadn't changed and no doubt Voldemort would be livid and all the more determined now that he had escaped him again. It wasn't lost on Harry that Voldemort's temperament that night had been far less playful than in the graveyard two years ago, or even in the ministry last year. The wizard was tired of and finished with Harry's existence. And if he wanted him dead so badly, he would continue to hunt him, forcing him into confrontation again. And deep down, even with all thoughts of horcruxes aside, Harry understood that he really was out of chances now.

"Hey, Harry. What's the story with the Dursleys?" Ron asked, once again saving Harry from his dark meanderings.

"Dumbledore said they're recovering. A lot of shock. He said Dudley wants to, er, visit. He'll be here tomorrow. Dunno if my aunt and uncle are coming. They've been moved to another safe house, but this time they're not insisting on going to work or running errands. A healer is with them to help, well, deal with everything I guess."

"They'll be okay, Harry," Hermione said, but he didn't fully buy her tone.

He nodded, an appeasement easier than opening that story too much. It was worrisome enough that Dudley was coming here, but he wouldn't know what to say to Vernon or Petunia.

Though he dreaded certain aspects of it, he really couldn't wait to return to Hogwarts and get back into routine. Being here, recuperating in this house, was holding Harry hostage to his thoughts. His friends' visits after classes helped immensely, but he still felt an irritating restlessness. Though, when he dreamed, all he saw were flashes of green light and a silver hand choking him in the dark. Perhaps he should ask for a Dreamless Sleep potion next time Madame Pomphrey came by to check on him?

He could also feel the questions that everyone wanted to ask him, but didn't dare. He hoped they didn't. He had no answers about death to give, not really.

"Hey, fancy a game?"

Harry's eyes left the window and turned around to Ron pulling a chess board out on the carpeted floor beside him. An ease dropped over the dark-haired boy and his mouth quirked, moving to sit down as Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled out a book – though she threw a cushion down and sat closely beside the two boys while she read.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry mourned the loss of Ron and Hermione when they had to return to the castle; they were both a comfort and a welcome distraction from himself. But now it was late, and he was cold, despite the heavy jumper he had pulled on and his close seat to the fire. Remus and Mrs Weasley, his 'carers' for the night, were both asleep – it was well beyond two in the morning. But Harry had no desire to retire to bed. The darkness when he closed his eyes was slowly taking on a new meaning for him, one he didn't wish to dwell on, but a trickling fear had been building in his gut every time he thought about it. And echoes of Voldemort sounded in his dreams, though he could never quite remember the details once he woke.

Madame Pomphrey was due another visit, but Harry knew he was physically fine. There were no marks on his body to serve as evidence for what had happened to him. The rope burn around his wrists was healed, the purple bruising of his elbow had faded, the stinging cuts at the side of his mouth aggravated by the chafing gag were gone, and the wound inflicted on his head when he failed to reach Kreacher in time was a distant memory; all courtesy of the Hogwarts matron, of course. She had fixed those problems in an instant – as soon as it was clear Harry was, well,  _alive_.

Shivering at the thought, he dragged his moth-eaten chair closer to the flames. Though Dumbledore's explanation and history of Tom Riddle's penchant for horcrux making explained  _how_  Harry managed to live through a second fatal curse, it didn't explain  _why_. Why was all of this happening?

Scrubbing his hands across his tired eyes, Harry willed his brain to come up with even half an answer he could believe. What was the point of surviving death twice? He was no hero, despite the whisper of the word 'miracle' he had heard from one or two passing Order members. Being the target of Voldemort's cruelty and hate didn't mean he was on equal footing with the dark wizard. But somehow that's what the wizarding world wanted to believe; they fully set stock in the idea that he was the opposing force to immeasurable evil. If only they knew how easy Voldemort had cornered him. Technically speaking, Voldemort had succeeded in vanquishing Harry, at least for a moment. He couldn't see how the next time they met would play out any differently, with the exception that in round two there would be no horcrux within Harry to serve as a suicide scapegoat. No, the next curse would pierce its true target.

Lost in the sea of his own thoughts, Harry jumped violently when he heard a door shut rather sharply from out in the hallway. His hand scrambled for the temporary wand Dumbledore had offered him upon the loss of his own and he scolded himself for his paranoia, fingers gripping the foreign wood tightly.

Order members were constantly moving in and out of the old house, gathering supplies, passing information, or even just resting for a time – as Remus had been doing – so a noise was not cause for panic. Not only that, but the deed was solidly in Harry's own name and Dumbledore himself managed the enchantments that kept it hidden. There was no need for the intense hammering of his heart he could feel building in his chest. He willed himself to relax but stood to investigate regardless.

Stealing toward the kitchen, Harry could make out the dim light of a wand in the dark. That did make his nerves spike. Why wouldn't the lamps be lit? Swallowing hard, he crept toward the door and pushed it open with his left hand, slowly, only to be met with the cross face of Severus Snape, whose wand shone brightly in one hand, quill pinched in the other, clearly disturbed mid-message if the parchment on the scrubbed wooden table was anything to go by.

An impatient flick of Snape's wand lit every lamp in the long room simultaneously, illuminating the scene with a warm yellow glow. Far warmer than the icy glower that was currently aimed at Harry.

"Potter."

It wasn't a question. If anything, it sounded more like an insult, but he understood it as a demand for an explanation as to why he was standing in the doorway at twenty-past two in the morning, wand raised in nervous hostility.

"Sorry, sir. I was just… checking."

It sounded as lame aloud as it did in Harry's head, but the professor's expression didn't change. He simply bent back down to finish his note, the scrawled signature at the bottom finalising the deed, just before five potion vials were set atop it.

Harry looked at them and frowned slightly. "Are those f-"

"They are for Lupin."

Wolfsbane. Right.

"Why are you dropping them off in the middle of the night?"

"I didn't realise my schedule was any of your concern." The words weren't scolding, they were mocking. Harry wasn't sure which was worse.

"It's not," Harry said, dumbly, just wanting to break the weird silence that he could feel looming. "Right. I'll just-"

He had turned away, fully intent upon escaping, but of course it could never be that easy.

"What are you doing skulking around in the middle of the night, Potter?"

Well, that was a bit rich considering it was Harry's house and Snape was the one found standing in the shadows of a darkened kitchen. But despite his inner desire to flee, he found himself turning and shrugging.

"Bad dreams?"

Fury should have been the go-to response for such a back-handed question, but the fire died as Snape continued, his tone falling from sarcastic to serious so suddenly that it threw Harry for a loop.

"If the Dark Lord is attempting to invade your mind, Potter, you are obligated to say."

An unpleasant feeling tingled across the back of Harry's neck.

"He's not. There hasn't been anything like that since, er, well. You know."

The atmosphere was suddenly stifling, awkwardness abound, and Harry's expression shrivelled under the scrutiny of the other.

"Since your ephemeral brush with death."

It was as if the tension cracked when 'death' was spoken aloud, and all the air was suddenly sucked from the room. Harry stared, wide-eyed, at the ex-potions master, aghast that he had said it just like that. No one else that Harry had spoken to had been so direct, or perhaps blasé was a better way of putting it. Ron had joked, but if only to make Harry feel better. The unpleasant man in front of him clearly had no such intentions and yet, he felt slightly grateful – finding the straight-forward approach oddly refreshing, even if it came in the form of Snape's hateful voice.

It took Harry a while before he spoke again.

"Do you think  _he_ knows I'm alive?" The question wasn't one that anyone had dared give him a straight answer to yet. Not even Dumbledore.

Snape regarded the boy in front of him with a cool indifference, but despite the picture of nonchalance that the man was, he answered. Again, directly.

"He knows."

Harry believed him. He knew he was being told the truth, he just couldn't work out how that felt. He wanted to ask how Voldemort had reacted, surely Snape had seen him since. But he didn't. He knew that it was a closed topic. And while things had changed so much, the limitations of their topics of conversation wouldn't stretch much further.

"Right."

Snape seemed wary of Harry's response, his mouth turning down at one side in a displeased fashion, eyes focused, searching. The Gryffindor avoided his scrutinising gaze, choosing instead to focus on the cold teapot resting on the stove.

"There's something different about you, Potter."

The words unsettled Harry's stomach and he couldn't help but return his eyes to the man in front of him.

"You're certain the Dark Lord hasn't infiltrated your thoughts? Or dreams?"

He considered it for a moment, weighing in on the far-off notion of dread that came to him while he slept sometimes. But it didn't add up to the agony that was Voldemort's influence on his consciousness. Harry knew that feeling all too well. Perhaps, for once, they had been nightmares and nightmares only?

"I'm sure. I think…"

Harry paused, doubting his thoughts before deciding to commit them to words.

"I think it's the opposite. For once, he's not there at all, not really."

Colour rose in Harry's face at this admission, though he didn't understand why. Perhaps it was because of his chosen audience for such a statement. Why was he still here? Or more importantly, why was Snape still here? Tolerating a conversation with him.

Even more bizarre, something in what he said caused the ex-potions professor's eyebrows to rise just a tad. An almost unnoticeable movement, but there it was all the same. Was it surprise? Obsidian eyes looked him up and down, analysing with intensity. But it was obvious that the man didn't find what he seemed to be searching for, as he turned slightly to glance back down at the potion bottles – checking that all was in order – before pulling his cloak tighter around himself and gesturing for his student to move from the doorway to allow his exit.

Harry stood aside, watching the wizard stride down the darkened hallway, eventually disappearing into the night with a far-off close of the front door.

 

* * *

 

Deciding sleep was pointless after the jarring encounter he had with his Defence professor, Harry put the teapot he had been previously staring at to use and sat down at the kitchen table with a steaming cup, clutching it between his cold palms and hovering over the hot liquid, rather than drinking it.

He considered Snape's words. Was he really so different? His right hand left the hot tea and gently touched his scar, frowning as he did.

The unpleasant man hardly knew Harry that well, so how could he judge whether he was different or not? Besides, if anyone was changed, it was Snape. He hadn't forgotten the odd stillness from the man when he first awoke, nor the shouting that had occurred a few days prior about Harry's supposed 'indifference' to death.

Death. That was another thing. Snape had said it so simply. Had named the very thing Harry was avoiding discussing or thinking on too much. And he was grateful for it. Grateful. To Snape…

Huffing a breath out, he dared take a sip of the tea, cringing at how bitter it was. But he couldn't find the sugar.

As he sat in silence, Harry's thoughts couldn't help but creep back to Voldemort, and the fact that he now had confirmation that the dark wizard knew he had survived. What would he do? What was Harry to do now? Start the hunt for horcruxes, hoping that he'd survive long enough to get a shot at Voldemort? That seemed like childish imagination; he was still only sixteen. How was he supposed to go out in the world when he couldn't even cast a simple Accio without the Ministry of Magic knowing about it.

Sighing hard, he took another sip of the bitter brew. He grimaced. It really was a poor cup of tea.

Just as he placed the cup back down on the wooden surface, a sugar bowl popped into existence beside his resting left hand, startling him and causing him to upend the tea all over the table.

Jumping up from the bench, Harry turned to grab a cloth but stopped short as his eyes found Kreacher, standing in half-shadow near the sink. The forgotten tea dribbled over the side of the table and pooled across the tiled floor beneath, left to seep into the cracks as the young wizard and reluctant elf stared at one another.

"Kreacher?" Harry said, wary and tentative in one.

This seem to jolt the towel-clad creature back to the present, for he stepped out into the light fully, his alarming eyes considering Harry with displeasure and curiosity.

"Master has survived the Dark Lord."

Whenever Kreacher had addressed Harry as 'master' in the past, it was always laced with derision and mocking, but this time it wasn't, sounding just softly dismissive.

Harry blinked, bewildered by the introductory topic of conversation. His mind flashed back to the elf lurking in the doorway of his bedroom.

"Just about," Harry said, slowly.

He was hoping the other would continue but he was silent. As the moment grew, Harry began to fidget, and an unexpected admission built up in him.

"Look, er, thanks for getting the Dursleys – the fat man and skinny woman – out of Malfoy Manor. They'd be dead if you hadn't."

The last thing that he expected to see in Kreacher's often narrowed eyes was alarm, but it was visible there now, the words clearly confusing the elf.

"And," Harry continued. "I'm sorry for forbidding you to tell anyone about it. I didn't realise my words would be so… I know you probably wouldn't have warned Dumbledore about where I'd gone regardless, why would you? But even still, I'm not entirely comfortable having such an influence on everything you can and cannot do.

There was an awkward pause.

"So, yeah."

It was a foreign and subtle guilt that had sat on his chest the more he had considered the power he had over the form in front of him.

Though, his words didn't seem to be of any comfort to Kreacher, as his face was now thoroughly twisted in confusion – though without any hint of malice.

Harry had hoped to leave it there. The tension was starting to get to him. But he had one more question, one he suddenly couldn't resist, as soon as it had formed in his head. He thought about Kreacher's willingness to help Bellatrix Lestrange in her master's plot to corner Sirius and trap Harry in the department of Mysteries. Was the elf simply looking for kindness, as he knew Hermione believed? Or was some part of him approving of all Voldemort and his followers stood for, having served a family that prided itself on pureblood mania. He couldn't explain why he wanted insight into the elf's take on Voldemort, but there it was all the same. He tried his best to separate out the elf's part in Sirius' eventual death. Could he really blame him, when it was Bellatrix who had manipulated the small form, only to kill her cousin herself mere hours later?

"What do you think of the Dark Lord, Kreacher? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But, I'm… Well, I just want to know. I know how wizard's see him, but do you approve of what he does, because of the pureblood thing your mistress was set on?"

Kreacher looked stunned. His often-ugly expression was simply aghast, looking up at Harry with bewilderment.

"Sirius' brother was a Death Eater, right?"

Harry would only later understand how that one question would begin the turning point in the conversation and in how Kreacher and he saw one another. Immediately, the elf's face darkened, before softening out into something akin to mournful.

"Master Regulus," he croaked. "Yes, yes. He followed the Dark Lord."

"So, he died serving him?"

Harry tried to keep the judgement out of his tone, but Kreacher sensed it regardless, his eyes snapping to the young wizard's with a disturbing intensity.

"No," he hissed. "No. My kind, clever master. He had forsaken the Dark Lord, before the end. Kreacher knows."

"But, why would he do that?" Harry was astonished, feeling something shifting in the air as he considered the elf in front of him with renewed interest.

Kreacher regarded the question with a nervousness Harry had never witnessed in him, watching as the elf glanced toward the doorway that led back down the halls to where the portrait of his mistress stood in the dark. Instead of an answer, Kreacher simply shook his head and the Gryffindor understood, recognising the tell-tale signs of a secret.

"Look, I get that you don't like me, Kreacher. But I meant what I said in the passageway of Malfoy Manor. I won't ask anything of you again. But, do you think, maybe some time, you might be willing to tell me even a piece of the story?"

The wide eyes were distrustful again, all nervous energy gone, replaced with a guarded look and a small retreat of footsteps. But there was an almost imperceptible nod and Harry took that at face value. He could wait. This was important, he knew that much, but he could wait. He'd research Regulus in the meantime and hold out until the elf was open to speaking with him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry dreamt of Sirius when he finally drifted off in the early hours of the morning, waking late the next day to a knock on his bedroom door and the alarming announcement from a rather unsure Remus that Dudley Dursley was waiting downstairs. Dressing himself quickly, he tried to loosen the knot in his stomach, hoping that Dudley was alone. He wasn't sure he could face his aunt and uncle right now.

The last step on the landing stairs creaked so loudly that Harry sighed, knowing the boy waiting in the sitting room would have heard, removing his chances of loitering in the hallway.

Pushing the door open with trepidation, he peered around the wooden frame to see his large cousin sat on the far couch, his heavy, though muscled, form crushing the old cushions beneath him as he wrung his hands in un-Dudley-like fashion.

Glancing behind him just as the larger boy looked up, Harry shut the door firmly, knowing that whatever was said here, both of them needed it to be in private. There couldn't be onlookers, like last time.

Moving with surprising agility, Dudley was to his feet, his face pinched in nervousness as he took in his skinny relative, eyes scrunching slightly at the dark circles under Harry's eyes. Though, funnily enough, Dudley's own pale face had similar rings under his lids, demonstrating the signs of his own personal ordeal over the last few days.

There was a pause, in which he wasn't sure if Dudley was going to punch him or cry. The boy was starting to shake, but his face was set.

"You saved them."

Harry's green eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to rebut the statement, knowing it was as much his fault that they were taken in the first place.

But Dudley didn't allow him to get a word out.

"You got them out. Even after how we've been with you at home."

Harry was aware that he was far more uncomfortable with those words than Dudley, despite the lack of understanding of anything to do with emotions or real-life situations that he had witnessed in his cousin in the past. This was just how it was in Dumbledore's office, but perhaps more extreme. The Gryffindor had even considered that maybe that time had been a one-off moment of maturity for Dudley. But no, here was the same boy he had seen that day.

"Why would you do that?"

The question caught him off guard, and he started, immediately shaking his head, unwilling to repeat what he had told Draco Malfoy, of all people, about the necessity of saving his relatives – regardless of whether they despised him.

"They were in trouble," Harry said, quietly. "It was necessary."

'Even if they wouldn't have done the same for you,' he thought, grimly.

"I was talking to one of the people who were guarding us. He said you're pretty famous in…  _your_  world."

Dudley's face was frowning in thought at his own words, as if the very notion seemed completely foreign to him. He then followed with a question Harry really didn't want to answer right now.

"Why?"

There was a long silence, but Harry sighed and dropped his shoulders, moving to sit in the armchair across from Dudley, suddenly tired – and not due to his late-night wakefulness.

"It's a long story," he mumbled, running a hand through his messy hair.

Dudley took a cue from him and also sat back down, scuffing his new trainers against the carpet slightly.

"But it's because of him, right? The guy that took mum and dad?"

Harry looked back at him. "Yeah, that's pretty much it, really."

"Is he still after you?" Dudley's question was unnecessary; they both knew the answer. But Harry nodded anyway.

"Right," Dudley mumbled, rubbing his arm awkwardly.

Wholly uneasy with this line of conversation, Harry turned things back on the other boy. "What are you going to do now?"

Dudley shrugged, saying nothing.

"Are- are they alright?" The question sounded stupid to him and Harry cringed at his own bluntness, knowing first-hand that of course they wouldn't alright after a run-in with Death Eaters.

But Dudley didn't torture him for asking. Instead, he nodded, looking older than Harry had ever seen him.

"Yeah. I mean, I can tell they're hiding a lot of it from me, but they're healed and all. Thanks to you."

Harry bristled at the misdirected gratitude.

"They were taken because of me, Dudley. You have to understand that." His words had a bite to them and if he had spoken to his cousin like that when they were children, he would have gotten a punch to the stomach. But this Dudley shook the words off, standing up and striding across the room. Harry tensed, getting to his feet quickly, as if waiting for the blow to land.

Instead, the larger boy swung his fist out and opened his fingers in a steady and steely offer of a handshake.

Shocked, Harry looked up at his face before glancing back down to the waiting hand. He didn't know what else he could do but take it, the two shaking hands slowly and seriously.

"They're alive because of you, that's all I know. So, thanks. Harry."

He paused as their hands fell away.

Dudley turned to grab his coat. "I'll see you around?"

Bewildered, Harry found himself nodding slowly.

"Yeah. See you around, Dudley."

As if from far away, he watched the boy leave the room. He overheard several voices, one he could identify as Dedalus Diggle's, before things quietened once more and the odd encounter with a boy Harry had never really taken an interest in was over, concluding that, as things stood, he didn't understand this version of Dudley one bit.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry had accepted the concept of 'never a dull moment' when it came to his schooling months long ago. Two days before he was due to return to Hogwarts, that constant reared its ugly head again, despite his current break from the castle that usually housed the uproar that was his life.

He had been reading over a letter from Dumbledore that evening, which stated that the headmaster himself was going to call tomorrow and take Harry to Ollivanders. He hated the loss of his holly wand, knowing, with deep-rooted anguish, that Voldemort had it at this moment. He remembered getting a hold of it just before blacking out in the cellars of Malfoy Manor, but he had not seen it since. Though the dark wizard had never referenced it in their short time together, Harry knew he had it in his possession and the thought burned him.

Sighing hard, he put the letter down, wondering why Dumbledore himself wanted to accompany him. Not that it was unwelcome, it was just unusual.

Putting it on top of the small pile of clothes he had gathered together, ready to be packed, he jumped out of his skin when Dobby suddenly popped into existence in front of him.

"Blimey, Dobby! You nearly have me a he-", but he stopped upon seeing the elf's expression, his small hands twisting his ears slightly.

"Harry Potter!"

"What is it, Dobby? Is something wrong?"

The elf hesitated, looking behind him for some phantom figure, before whispering quickly. "Dobby thought he should come tell you. Dobby was working on the seventh floor of Hogwarts this night, dusting the portrait of the ballet-dancing trolls, and saw a most peculiar thing."

Harry's face was utter confusion now, gesturing for him to go on.

"It was young Draco Malfoy, sir. Dobby sees him, just for a minute. Standing in the corridor, then not. He is supposed to be away from the castle."

Thoughts running a mile a minute, Harry balked at the idea that Malfoy was in the school. He was supposed to be in hiding with his parents. Why would he risk being seen there? The Death Eaters had several sons and daughters at Hogwarts, if one of them happened to see him…

"Are you sure?"

The elf's emphatic nodding left no doubt in Harry's mind and he stood up from the bed, pacing slightly, hand going through his hair. Was Malfoy back-tracking? Was he there for some nefarious reason? These poisonous thoughts built up in him before he could stop them, but he did his best to chase them away, reasoning that even if Malfoy or his family had second thoughts there was no way they would return to Voldemort. He'd kill them instantly for their betrayal. Just look at what happened to Wormtail.

Swallowing, Harry stopped his nervous movement. Biting his lip, he glanced nervously at the door, knowing that what he was thinking of doing was exactly what every member of the Order and his friends feared he would do – again and again. Running off into potential danger.

But this was Hogwarts. He was going back in two days anyway. And it was Malfoy. A reluctantly pseudo-reformed Malfoy, at that. Even if the other turned on him, he could best him in a duel – so long as Malfoy was alone.

Still, perhaps he should go straight to Dumbledore, write him a letter there and then? Or alert Mrs Weasley downstairs?

But Harry had this urge to speak to Malfoy himself, face-to-face, ever since he learnt that it had been the Slytherin who had informed Dumbledore of his whereabouts. He wanted to see for himself, to feel that the blonde had changed somewhat. And if he went running to the Order, there was no way they'd allow him to chase down his school rival. Most people – bar Snape and Dumbledore, and Hermione and Ron, of course – had treated Harry like he was made of glass since he had taken by Voldemort that night. The last thing they'd want to hear from him was a desire to dive into another risky situation.

Sighing, he looked back at Dobby who seemed to be getting more nervous by the minute, perhaps feeling unresolved guilt at spilling one of his ex-master's secrets?

"Was he alone?"

The elf nodded.

That still didn't prove anything though. Hating himself for wanting to rush off, Harry tried to settle his mind. This was Hogwarts! Where else was he going to be safe than there? Malfoy didn't have the protection in the castle that Harry did, not now. And Dobby would be with him. Surely that was enough to alleviate any worry?

"Dobby, would you come with me, to find him?"

The small elf looked positively touched at the question. Nodding enthusiastically, he stood tall – as tall as an elf could manage – and firm. "Harry Potter can always count on Dobby!"

Harry gave him a small smile and his thanks.

Grabbing his jumper from where it had been flung over a chair, Harry bemoaned the fact that his invisibility cloak, much like his wand, had been lost to him. He had realised this only recently, jolting up from the armchair he had been half-heartedly reading in, accepting that it now lay somewhere in the depths of the prison he had narrowly escaped. His dad's heirloom, gone.

Urging himself not to dwell on it, he pulled the maroon knit over his head and slipped his wand into his jeans.

"Ready when you are, Dobby."

A very serious expression came over the elf's face and he nodded, reaching up to grasp Harry's arm, the two disappearing on the spot.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mercifully, the corridor outside the Room of Requirement was empty, and it took no more than a minute to get inside, the door opening upon Harry's third thought. What was utterly bizarre, however, was what greeted him when he stepped into the seemingly endless space. As the door clanged shut behind him, the sound of something smashing rang out from somewhere in the depths of forgotten things. Bewildered, Harry motioned for Dobby to keep quiet and follow him. The nod he got was solemn and focused and Harry led the way, wand alight in his hand.

Splintering wood and glass shattering led them all the way to the blonde head of Draco Malfoy, who was standing over a ruined vanishing cabinet, face sweaty and hair thoroughly messed, his wand in one hand and an old broom handle in the other.

"What on earth?"

Harry's voice sounded loud in the huge space and Malfoy whirled so fast he almost toppled, eyes wild with tension until they turned to confusion upon seeing who was standing before him.

"Potter?" The name wasn't spat at him but flavoured with honest surprise; the shock in the Slytherin's face only mounting when his grey eyes glanced downward.

"Dobby?!"

"Mister Draco, sir."

Harry almost laughed at the gaping expression he and Dobby were met with then, but he didn't; the situation they were in keeping him sober.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy? Isn't it dangerous to be seen?"

"I could say the same thing to you," was shot back at him, surprise replaced with hostility – though he kept looking at Dobby in something akin to wonder.

Harry ignored his words. "And what's with the cabinet?"

Now that had Malfoy's expression paling, instantly alerting the Gryffindor to the fact that this wasn't a stress-relieving destructive moment. Malfoy came here with the intent to destroy it.

"It's nothing, Potter. I just had to get rid of it. Stay out of my business."

Harry, oddly, believed him. Glancing down at the ruined mass of wood and glass, he considered the fact that Malfoy had been key in saving him not so long ago. And they had come to a tentative agreement in the bathroom that day. Was it possible to keep such a fragile truce going, now that Malfoy had the protection he desired, and Harry was currently out of harm's way?

Squinting at the remains of the cabinet, Harry pointed his wand at it, suspecting something but unsure without Hermione there to tell him different.

"Reparo."

Bits and pieces that Malfoy had so ceaselessly destroyed began to form back together. The cabinet didn't immediately become whole, but it was clear the magic was trying.

"What the hell, Potter?!" Malfoy shouted, enraged. "You don't know what you're doing."

Harry lowered his wand. "I'm not trying to fix it! I'm proving that it  _can_  be fixed. We need to destroy it to the point that it can't reform."

That shut the other up, his pinched face glancing between the Gryffindor and the half-formed furniture in agitation.

"We?" he sneered.

"Yes. We." Harry's tone was serious, but he thought the other wasn't going to budge. Until he did. Shrugging his shoulders in an unnatural way, Malfoy sighed. "Fine. What do you suggest?"

"We need to burn it. Reparo shouldn't work on ashes…"

Instead of mocking him, Malfoy looked thoughtful. "Fine. I'll maintain the flames; you keep them contained. If it starts to spread, cast Aguamenti."

Harry simply nodded, even though the tone was slightly bossy and merely listing out his own thought process. But he let it go.

The two worked in silence, as Dobby watched on in surprise as his old master and his favourite friend actually worked together, the minutes ticking by until the structure crumbled, and the wood smouldering; the burst of water from Harry's wand eventually smothering the smoking remains, leaving utter destruction behind.

There was silence for a long time.

"I thought you were off licking your wounds somewhere, Potter," came Malfoy's quiet voice, his tone wary despite its intent to insult.

"I could say the same about you," he said, repeating the blonde's earlier words back to him.

Malfoy glanced over to him, eyes drawn in a frown. Then he turned his attention to the elf. "And why are you with my old house elf?"

Harry didn't need to answer, for Dobby piped up almost immediately, no trace of hesitation in his voice.

"Dobby is Harry Potter's friend," he claimed, proudly, drawing a horrified look from the young Malfoy.

"There aren't any limits to your attempts at sainthood, are there?" The words were spat at him, but Harry didn't feel the usual hostility the Slytherin could draw up in him. He simply shrugged.

"Dobby saved me that night," he said, tone firm.

"A house elf, of course," Malfoy muttered. But then he paused. "The Dark Lord caught you though. I warned you not to go after those Muggles."

Harry frowned. "I couldn't have done anything differently. No-matter the consequences. You weren't there when Dobby brought, er, brought me back?"

Narrowing his eyes at the odd question, Malfoy shook his head, divulging that he and his parents had been moved to a secret location earlier that evening – clearly after providing the information of Harry's whereabouts, something the Slytherin failed to mention.

Harry breathed an internal sigh of relief. His death was an Order secret and if Malfoy hadn't witnessed his body, there was no way he could know exactly what went down.

"Did-did he mention my mother and father? When you were there?"

Suddenly Malfoy was unable to meet Harry's eyes, the grey orbs focused on the ash pile in front of him.

"Er, yeah. He did. He guessed what had happened."

The blonde shivered and absent-mindedly rubbed at his arm, wincing slightly.

"You need to be more careful, Malfoy. If the wrong people had spotted you tonight…"

A sneer was aimed at him in response. "I'm well aware. I didn't come here on a whim, Potter. But now that it's done, I will leave and hopefully never have to see your sorry face again."

Harry said nothing. He didn't feel the need to. He let Malfoy have his biting comment and was willing to step out of the way as the other boy stalked past him. However, the other boy didn't take more than a few steps before he turned around, shooting Harry a scrutinising glance.

"What is  _with_  you?"

Harry started, taken aback by the turn in tone and conversation.

"What?"

"You. There's something different about you."

Chilled by the repeat of words he had heard from Snape, Harry stared at Malfoy in open surprise. What had caused the blonde to say such a thing?

"You're normally more… well, easy to rile up. I've insulted you several times and nothing. Don't tell me it's because you're indulging me, Potter. Because I'll curse you into tomorrow if you're taking pity on me."

Blinking, Harry pulled back slightly, glancing over to Dobby, almost looking for support. But the sweet elf was gazing at him in confusion.

"What did  _he_  do to you?"

Something unpleasant shot up Harry's spine at those words, no doubt in his mind as to who  _he_  was. Staring at Malfoy, he saw the apprehension in the other's face, as if he was afraid of the answer. So why had he asked? The first spark of anger Harry had felt in a while flared up in him and that's when he realised.

He was less angry. Less on edge. About everything. Was that a result of having the horcrux gone? Had it affected him to that extent, some of Voldemort's natural bitterness seeping into him from within? Sick at the thought, Harry shook his head. Surely not?

Realising that Malfoy was actually expecting an answer, he scowled. "You wouldn't even tell me why you're here to destroy a cabinet for no apparent reason and you expect me to tell you that?"

Malfoy's mouth tensed. "Whatever, Potter. I can guess."

Despite his open dislike, this ability to assume what Harry had gone through under the Dark Lord's ministrations didn't seem to please the blonde one bit; instead he looked uneasy. That, at least, Harry was grateful for.

"It was nothing good," Harry confirmed, leading to Malfoy nodding in response.

The dark-haired boy sighed then. "Wormtail is dead."

Malfoy's wide eyes weren't sorry, but they seemed hyper-aware, hanging onto the other's words with careful ears.

"He was a coward," Harry said, his words harsh but true. "Even still…"

Silence descended on the trio and this seemed enough to chase the blonde away, his hands moving to tighten his cloak and he turned toward the path that led to the exit.

"Wait," Harry said, making him stop in his tracks. The Gryffindor sighed. "It's hard to get in  _and_  out of the castle unseen. Maybe Dobby wouldn't mind getting you back to the safehouse?"

It was a sensible suggestion, but an awkward one considering how easily his sense could be translated into concern. Judging by Malfoy's reluctant expression, he was thinking the same thing. But, much to Harry's surprise, he nodded.

"Fine."

Well, it wasn't polite, but it was a yes.

Turning to Dobby, Harry smiled apologetically at the elf. "Would you mind? Only if it's alright with you?"

"Of course! Dobby is always happy to help the friends of Harry Potter."

It would have been comical seeing the revolted expression on Malfoy's face, if Harry's own hadn't been an exact mirror image of horror. Before either could protest at that statement, Dobby was moving to grab Malfoy's arm – who recoiled slightly but didn't step back.

"Wait here for Dobby, Harry Potter. We will only be a moment!"

Nodding, Harry cast one more look at the blonde. Before he could stop himself, words blurted out of his mouth, fuelled by the desire for Malfoy to escape Voldemort and not become what Harry long expected him to be.

"Good luck, Malfoy."

The Slytherin seemed almost insulted at first, but he seemed to accept the seriousness and weight of those words and reluctantly nodded back.

"You too, Potter."

And he was gone, leaving Harry in heavy silence, awaiting Dobby's return.

Glancing around at the incredible stash of treasures and junk the students of Hogwarts had discarded over the years, he walked slowly through the miscellaneous collection, picking up a ridiculous-looking stuffed cat only to wince at its eyeless sockets, placing it back down in a hurry.

Next to it there was an old tapestry slung over a large wardrobe that had a majestic woven lion sitting proudly, and stationary, at its centre, as well as a length of gold chains curled around in a metre-high pile in front. Oddly, there was a hat sitting atop the chains, a familiar vulture crowning the brim. Curious, Harry reached over to pick it up when Dobby suddenly popped up a few steps ahead of him.

Jumping slightly, Harry's hip bumped into a small side table, knocking several objects to the floor. Hunching down, he scooped them up and placed them onto an old dresser, raising an eyebrow at the title on one of the books he had disturbed – 'Spellbinding Sadomasochism: A Beginner's Guide'. Shaking his head, he tried not to think too much on who could have owned the volume, placing a discoloured old tiara on top of it before turning back to Dobby.

Shrugging off an odd feeling that had nothing to do with unusual book titles, he stepped toward the elf. "Ready?"

Dobby happily agreed, dropping Harry back to the room he had found him in with ample speed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Though he thanked him profusely for all his help, Dobby could only smile before announcing his need to get back to the castle.

"Sure, I understand."

"Um, before Dobby goes, he has a question."

"Oh, okay. What is it?"

"Well, Dobby could have vanquished the big cabinet in only a moment if you had wished it. And with less ashy mess."

The elf's ears went slightly red at the admission, but Harry sighed. "Yeah, I know. But I thought that maybe it might be good for me and Malfoy to do that together."

"Why? Harry Potter, sir?"

"Honestly? I have absolutely no idea. But it seemed to work."

Dobby simply looked confused and pardoned his exit, popping out in a flash of colourful socks; leaving Harry to his meandering thoughts and concerns.

Now two people had told him he was different. Admittedly, neither were reliable sources for him as a person. Both were people he had spent the majority of his time despising. But still, it really bothered him that the two Slytherins would point it out. Was he changed? Less angry? Less open to volatile emotion now that Voldemort's influence on his own soul was gone?

Deciding he would ask Dumbledore about it tomorrow, Harry shrugged out of his jumper, collapsing on the bed and marvelling at where the last hour had taken him. But despite it all, he knew it was a good thing that he had gone; that he confronted Malfoy. Neither had discussed anything of real importance, but it wasn't necessary. It would only be rebuffed. A simple 'good luck' was all the blonde would have stomached. Honestly, Harry was surprised Malfoy even accepted that much. He wasn't sure when he'd see the Slytherin again, but at least they had parted on civil terms – a far cry from their disastrous beginning in first year. He wondered about the cabinet, of course. But somehow, deep down, he knew that the Slytherin's intentions were in the right direction. He would give him the benefit of the doubt this one time, a silent thank-you for Malfoy's hand in getting him away from Voldemort, no-matter how much that hadn't been the blonde's intention or direct action. It was important all the same and Harry could see that.

Maybe he really had changed?

Before he could be lost to this whirling wheel of thought, he heard Mrs Weasley's voice carry up the stairs.

"Harry, dear? Are you awake? I have spiced pumpkin soup on the table if you'd like some?"

His stomach growled in response and he called back in the affirmative, standing up, about to leave the room when he noticed the subtle smell of charred ashes on his clothes.

Cursing slightly, he moved to grab a new pair of jeans and t-shirt, dressing hastily. Tugging his trainers back on as he opened the bedroom door, he froze. Kreacher was standing there, a black box in hand, looking at Harry in softened displeasure.

"Er, Kreacher?"

For a moment Harry wondered if the elf was here to pick up their earlier conversation, but this hope was dashed when Kreacher gestured to the package he held.

"Master has a parcel."

Blinking in surprise, Harry frowned down at it, suddenly wary.

"Kreacher, if something unexpected came for me, it might be best to-"

"Good Kreacher has checked," the elf hissed, as if affronted by the mere suggestion of his ineptitude. "It is safe. Safe, but strange, Kreacher thought it best it be brought here. Not to the mudblood-praising Weasley wom-"

Harry sent him a warning look which halted his words.

"Why strange?"

"Kreacher found it, outside. Beyond the enchantments of the old wizard, but intended for this noble house. Strange."

His croaking voice only heightened Harry's dread, taking in the seemingly innocent wrapping with caution, only too aware that if it had been left outside the wards, the sender was more than unwelcome. Unwelcome and purposefully kept out.

Shaking his head, Harry stepped back slightly.

"Master distrusts Kreacher so? Kreacher can open it. To prove that no harm lies on it." His small voice held the hostility that often coloured his words, popping open the box before the dark-haired boy could protest.

Nothing happened, which at first provided relief to Harry's thumping heart. However, when the lid was pulled aside, pure and unfiltered fear shot through him, unabated by Kreacher's confusion.

With severe reservation, Harry looked closer. There, nestled atop a silk lining, was his beloved phoenix feather and holly wand, snapped viciously in half; the splintered wood sharp and jagged. He swallowed hard, knowing exactly who could have sent such a thing. And why.

Seeing it there, lying uselessly in the confines of a box, magicless and broken, it was all too easy to replace the wand fragments with visions of Harry himself. Which was, no doubt, the ill-natured intention.


End file.
